


The Griffin

by SimplyLucia



Series: About Robert's Rebellion [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: And cruel towards Elia, Battle of Stoney Sept, Battle of the Bells, But he's more noble than he seems, Canon Compliant, Essos, Exile, F/M, Friendship, Golden Company, House Targaryen, Jealousy, Jon Connington is bad-tempered in this fic, King's Landing, M/M, Robert's Rebellion, Sacrifice, Stoney Sept, The Red Keep, Unrequited Love, pre-asoiaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-07-29 12:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7684561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyLucia/pseuds/SimplyLucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Connington's POV on Robert's Rebellion, from the Red Keep to his exile in Essos. How he saw his silver prince grow apart from him, how he fought and eventually failed him... to be reborn as a sellsword and serve his prince again.<br/>"The swift blow of his sword wasn't enough to disarm his opponent. The prince's locks brushed his forearm as he avoided Jon's long sword; steel made a silvery sound, he felt something pricking his chest, despite the jerkin he wore and it was over. Victory brought a half-smile on Rhaegar's lips.<br/>"Did I hurt you, my friend?" the prince asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Jon shook his head but Rhaegar insisted. "I can see blood."<br/>Docilely, Jon undid his jerkin and they both noticed a small gash on the left side of his chest, two inches above his nipple. <em>How ironic. As if he aimed at my heart.</em>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All the characters belong to GRRM. 
> 
> This work belongs to the series 'About Robert's Rebellion', along with a fic centered on young Sandor Clegane ('Two-and-Ten') and another focusing on Eddard Stark ('Promise'). They can be read separately or together.  
> I did some 'research' before writing this but if you spot anything strange, please let me know.

The swift blow of his sword wasn't enough to disarm his opponent. The prince's locks brushed his forearm as he avoided Jon's long sword; steel made a silvery sound, he felt something pricking his chest, despite the jerkin he wore and it was over. Victory brought a half-smile on Rhaegar's lips.

No matter how gifted he was with a sword, no matter how many of his opponents had bitten the dust, Jon had never defeated the prince. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice his sudden clumsiness whenever Rhaegar chose him as a sparring partner. In the Great Hall, in the sept or in the yard where they practiced swordplay, Prince Rhaegar embodied perfection. _My silver prince._

As neither of them moved, the blade still grazed his chest and it was Rhaegar who first thought of the marks valyrian steel would leave on Jon's skin. He took his long sword and sheathed.

"Did I hurt you, my friend?" the prince asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Jon shook his head but Rhaegar insisted. "I can see blood."

Docilely, Jon undid his jerkin and they both noticed a small gash on the left side of his chest, two inches above his nipple. _How ironic. As if he aimed at my heart._

"I am sorry," Rhaegar said, concern distorting his handsome face.

"I didn't even feel it."

It was true. Jon always felt numb and stupid and clumsy in front of his prince. Right now, he could have drowned himself in Rhaegar's purple gaze; moments like this one were too brief and too rare lately. As the prince still stared at him, looking for some other scratch, he stuck out his chest. Suddenly ashamed, he regretted it: was he some wanton girl in Flea Bottom to expose his skin and thus try to draw Rhaegar's attention? He grumbled and slipped on his jerkin.

"I am sorry," Rhaegar repeated, turning around and looking into the distance.

This time, Jon could tell the prince's apologies were not about the gash on the freckled skin of his chest. A fresh breeze blew in Rhaegar's silver locks and reminded Jon it was late; they only had until the sun went down. He nevertheless would try to make this moment last.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," Jon rasped. "I know I'm not half as good as Ser Arthur Dayne. If he was here, he would have made a worthy opponent. I can still take my revenge, though."

His back to him, Rhaegar gestured and he understood there would be no more swordplay before the sunset.

"I didn't see Ser Arthur in King's Landing for some days," he went on. "Does Your Grace know what he has to do in Dorne?"

Rhaegar turned on his heels and his purple gaze became darker, as if Jon had insulted him.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I didn't mean..."

The Targaryen prince's features relaxed and he sighed.

"Someday, I will tell you everything, my friend," he promised. "But now, I feel tired."

Rhaegar looked rather anxious than tired, but Jon kept his thoughts for himself. After the Tourney at Harenhal, rumors spread all over the realm. For the first time in his life, Rhaegar was a disappointment; he had given the crown of blue winter roses to Lyanna Stark instead of choosing his wife Elia. That day, the Stark girl had become the Queen of Love and Beauty and from then on, smallfolk began to talk about their beloved prince in a way they never had before. Of course, Rhaegar's decision surprised him, but Jon could understand; Princess Elia was frail and always sick. The Stark girl was just a girl, but at least, she seemed alive.

They slowly walked toward Maegor's Holdfast and Jon brought back to his apartments the vision of his prince, distant and melancholic as ever.

* * *

When the squire knocked at his door, he was looking at the gash on his chest. Without really thinking about it, he had scratched it and removed the thin brown crust; now it was bleeding again. Jon stared at the boy with a hint of exasperation and asked what he wanted.

"Princess Elia would like to talk to you," the squire explained.

For fear of his reaction, the boy stepped back immediately, ready to retreat. If Jon managed to conceal his true feelings for the dornish princess when in court, he made no secret of his disdain for her in front of his relatives and his servants.

"What in Seven Hells does she want?" Jon growled.

The frightened boy couldn't tell him and he knew it. He cursed, got dressed and emptied a cup of Arbor gold before following his squire in the corridors of the Red Keep. A muted rage took hold of him and made his strides longer; the poor boy who couldn't keep up with him was soon forced to run behind an infuriated Jon. When he realized the squire was panting, he slowed down his pace, but they were already in front of Princess Elia's apartments.

She was bedridden since the maester found out she was with child. Before Princess Rhaenys' birth, she had stayed in bed for half a year, and now it was just the same. Everyone in court said it was necessary and sympathized with Elia, but he just didn't get it. Since when did bearing a child mean lazing in a feather bed? His mother certainly didn't spend her time bedridden when she was expecting him. As Lady Ashara Dayne, Princess Elia's lady-in-waiting sent him in, he sighed and clenched his jaw. On Ashara's graceful face, he noticed a mischievous smile; she knew how he felt about Rhaegar's wife, but he couldn't care less.

The bedroom had an incredible coffered ceiling of orange, red and golden, a tribute to House Martell's sigil. White veils hung from the ceiling, framing the bed where Elia of Dorne sat enthroned. She seemed even weaker than the last time he had seen her, lost in the huge bed like some beginner actress in a spectacular scenery.

"It's been a long time, my lord," she said softly, granting him with one of those smiles all the lords and ladies of Westeros found so charming. _Hypocrite. We don't like each other._ He bowed deeply in front of Elia, happy to realize that a curtsey allowed him to keep the contemptuous look the princess inspired him for a heartbeat or two.

"Oh, stand up, my lord. Please. Did somebody tell you how well this doublet fits you?"

"I don't think so, Your Grace," he answered a bit stiffly. "Are we here to talk about frills and flounces?"

A tinkling laugh escaped her lips and he suddenly remembered how young she was. _Featherbrained._

"Of course not, my lord. You are here because now that I am bedridden, I have time to think about many matters I overlooked so far."

"Politics? Philosophy?" he mocked. Every time they met, it became more and more difficult to hide his aversion for her; he should be more careful. She laughed again.

"You are boiling, my lord. Actually I was thinking about politics and love. I was thinking about a wedding. Yours."

Elia's big eyes locked with his and she tilted her head, observing his reaction. He stood there gaping, trying to understand what she had just said. _She knows. She knows who I am and what I feel for_ him _._

"How old are you, Lord Connington? Two-and-twenty, maybe three-and-twenty, like my dear husband? It doesn't matter: it is time for you to marry and give an heir to Griffin's Roost."

If she was a man, he would have thrown himself on her and made her regret her words, but he couldn't do that: her sickness and her pregnancy were her shield and sword.

"I do not have time for this," he said slowly, glaring at her.

"How serious you look, my lord!" she exclaimed. "No time for marrying a high-born lady and conceiving an heir?"

"I would be a terrible husband and a terrible father, Your Grace," he replied, his eyes fleeting around the room. He hoped this argument would hit the bull's eye.

"My dear Jon, if all the terrible husbands and fathers had refused to wed, we wouldn't be there."

His forced smile perhaps didn't delude her, but she couldn't blame him for that.

"I think you should get married," she insisted. "I found you the perfect match..."

"No offense, Your Grace, but I don't want to discuss those matters for now. There are far more important questions than my wedding. Lord Varys' little birds reported that troublemakers are coming to the capital."

"Troublemakers?"

"Lord Stark's eldest son and some of his companions."

"What do they want?" Elia's tone was suddenly frightened.

"I should not tell you, Your Grace. In your condition..."

"What is it?" she begged. "I told Lady Ashara and my ladies-in-waiting not to hide anything from me, but they disobeyed. They don't know me, I am strong..."

He snorted. The princess had just given him a way to make her suffer like he suffered. It was too tempting. Her anxiety delighted him.

"I suppose you remember the flower crown Prince Rhaegar, your husband, gave to Lyanna Stark, during the Tourney at Harenhal. The Stark girl is reported missing and her brother blames Rhaegar."

"Impossible," the princess said, panting as if she had run in the corridors. "My husband..."

Jon kept silent deliberately. He should be ashamed for disturbing Elia's mind, but he wasn't. _Now, it's your turn to suffer and to torture yourself._ Fear and doubts distorted her features.

"Your Grace asked why I don't want to get married," he finally said, a pitiless look in his eyes. "I see your concern about Prince Rhaegar, and I thank the Seven for not being a husband and a father."

She swallowed hard, unable to answer or to send him away. He noticed how her delicate hands fisted the smooth fabric of the sheets, how jealousy had crept up on her face. Tormenting her relieved him. He bowed again and asked her in a courteous tone if he could leave her. She barely answered and he made his way to the door. Lady Ashara Dayne waited for him in the corridor, the little Rhaenys in her arms.

"Princess Elia wants to be alone," he told her. _I want her to brood over the case of the Stark girl, no matter how false rumors are._

Ashara's half-smile surprised him and he wondered if she was the 'perfect match' Elia had found for him, but it seemed far-fetched. Rhaenys squirmed in Ashara's arms and looked at him.

"Red hair!" she told him, pointing a chubby hand at him.

"Why does Prince Rhaegar's daughter have brown hair?" he retorted stiffly.

Frightened by his harsh tone, the little girl hid her face in Ashara's neck. The lady-in-waiting laughed.

"Are you trying to convince Princess Rhaenys you would make a terrible husband?" she asked.

"You listened to our conversation."

"Mayhap."

The thought of an alliance between him and House Dayne didn't seem so stupid after all, at least in Elia's mind. Rhaegar's wife probably thought it was a great favor to marry her lady-in-waiting. And it was true, for any other man. Maybe Elia knew his feelings for her husband and tried to separate them. He clenched his jaw. All of a sudden, he remembered Ser Arthur Dayne's unusual absence.

"Tell me something, my lady," he told Ashara. "It's been a while since I last saw your brother here. As a member of the Kingsguard, he should be protecting the king, shouldn't he?"

Ashara's purple eyes expressed both surprise and helplessness. When she heard Princess Elia's voice through the thick wooden door, she quickly took leave.

Once Ashara was gone, he stared at the carved panels and wondered about the Stark girl.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon smelt the heavy scent of her perfume before seeing her; she hid her pretty nose behind a lace handkerchief and bowed slightly her head with a courteous look. She certainly had no time for banter, that day, though: like everyone inside the thick walls of the Red Keep since the past few days, she was in a hurry or pretended she had no time to breathe.  
>  _Aye, my lady. When you were a little girl, you wanted to live in the capital and stay at court. You imagined the feasts and the gardens full of roses. You certainly didn't imagine that stench offending your delicate nostrils._ He snorted. Since the Starks were dead, the high-born ladies stormed the shops that were selling perfumes and frankincense. _What kind of fools are we? If we were brave, we would have done something to prevent King Aerys from killing them but we pretend nothing happened and we drench ourselves in perfume._ At some point, Jon realized the only bravery he heard of was Brandon's, strangling himself as he tried to save his lord father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar is back in this update. Jon's resentment towards Elia didn't disappear (not yet anyway): I chose not to sugarcoat Jon's flaws.

_Please let some fresh air in._ It seemed to Jon that the entire Red Keep was stinking. The smell of smoke filled the castle and there was not a room or a gallery that didn't reek of charred meat.

Whenever he let his mind wander and thought all this was a bad dream and nothing had happened, the smell reminded him what his king had done to Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon. Not that he was fond of the Northerners; they always seemed haughty, wrapped in their pride. The Starks had never completely admitted they were no longer kings in the North, and Brandon was too hot-headed for his own good. No one deserved to die this way, though. No one deserved to die for accusing the wrong person.

Jon was not in King's Landing when Lord Stark arrived; he was already heading to the Stormlands before the White Cloaks arrested Brandon Stark and his companions. King Aerys had sent him to Griffin's Roost, explaining that the impending visit of Lords Stark, Royce, Mallister and Glover in the capital didn't exempt Jon from his duties toward the people of the Stormlands. The king's sudden interest for smallfolk seemed unnatural, but what could he do? He was on his way back when he heard the news and thought for a while that the merchants chatting about a man roasting in his armor were just spreading some tale. He loathed rumors and that was the main reason why he distrusted smallfolk. _Always telling tales, because they don't know. But if they knew, they would tell even more idle gossips._ Then, as every hour brought him closer to the Red Keep, he met more people reporting the death of Lord Stark and his son. When he entered the Great Hall, he almost choked on an acrid smell and realized everything the merchants and the peasants had told him was true. Mayhaps they were not wide of the mark.

His absence and the stench in the Red Keep condemned Jon to imagine what had happened. Somehow, it was worse than witnessing the Starks' death. In his opinion, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Gerold Hightower, who watched the scene, had never been so spry. _How is it possible? When did the King lose his mind? And if I had been there, what would I have done?_

There had been hints, tiny details of the king's madness that had startled him, but he didn't want to pay attention. It was easier to blame Aerys' imprisonment during the Defiance of Duskendale. When he was still a squire, the whole story of Aerys rotting in a jail was enough to explain the king's weird habits. Aerys was not only his king, he was Rhaegar's father; Jon found out that you can forgive almost everything from the one you love, and that you were always lenient with your love's relatives.

After a while, it just was more convenient to turn a blind eye to the king's whims and fits of anger. Everyone did so in the Red Keep. Everyone tried to ignore the bruises on Queen Rhaella's skin, whenever she dared to leave her apartments. Some heard her crying and screaming at night, but didn't say anything for fear of the king's reaction. Thus, most of the time, the ladies and lords still attending court looked at each other with embarrassment and did their best to forget what they saw. After all, Rhaegar would be king someday – the sooner the better – and he was so gifted, so wise...

_We were blind, I was blind; we didn't want to face the king's condition. We refused to admit Aerys is mad._ Beheading those men – a death the Starks would have approved, they were known for beheading the convicts themselves – it have been a terrible mistake, but they would have died with dignity. The torture Aerys had imagined for them was barbaric and revealed that a demented person ruled the Seven Kingdoms.

Even the dragon skulls adorning the walls of the Great Hall seemed to disapprove. On his way to Maegor's Holdfast, he met one of Princess Elia's ladies-in-waiting, perhaps the most talkative of them. Jon smelt the heavy scent of her perfume before seeing her; she hid her pretty nose behind a lace handkerchief and bowed slightly her head with a courteous look. She certainly had no time for banter, that day, though: like everyone inside the thick walls of the Red Keep since the past few days, she was in a hurry or pretended she had no time to breathe.

_Aye, my lady. When you were a little girl, you wanted to live in the capital and stay at court. You imagined the feasts and the gardens full of roses. You certainly didn't imagine that stench offending your delicate nostrils._ He snorted. Since the Starks were dead, the high-born ladies stormed the shops that were selling perfumes and frankincense. _What kind of fools are we? If we were brave, we would have done something to prevent King Aerys from killing them but we pretend nothing happened and we drench ourselves in perfume._ At some point, Jon realized the only bravery he heard of was Brandon's, strangling himself as he tried to save his lord father. Even those he respected, like Ser Barristan Selmy didn't lift a little finger.

A seven years old boy emerged from the dark corner he was hiding in and howled, waving a wooden sword. He had a long pale face and his blond hair was almost white.

"Prince Viserys," Jon said, bowing his head, "how are you today?"

Now that the king's madness was so obvious, he wondered how a child could grow up in the Red Keep. In Jon's opinion, Viserys was old enough to be sent away to some place where he would learn everything a prince should know. Some place where the boy would have other companions than the dragons' skulls hanging in the Great Hall. Instead of answering, the boy pointed his sword at Jon.

"Watch yourself, Connington!" Viserys squeaked. "Or else I will have you burning in your armor! Just like Father did!"

If he was his son, Jon would have given him a good hiding for threatening people.

"Do you think this is a game?" Jon asked, squatting in front of him. In the young prince's purple eyes, he saw overconfidence, but it soon melted away under Jon's frowning gaze. The boy began to quiver and he finally disappeared in the corridors. Jon stood up and sighed. Prince Viserys' attitude was like the stench inside the Red Keep: a proof of Aerys' madness everyone tried to forget.

* * *

Rhaegar came back to King's Landing at noon that day. The Crown Prince was nowhere to be found when Brandon Stark arrived in the capital, seeking vengeance; no one knew where he was, what for and when he would be back.

Jon spotted Ser Arthur Dayne by the stables the same day, after a long absence. He noticed Rhaegar, as well, who seemed upset when he left Princess Elia's bedroom.

Despite his confused look, Rhaegar asked him to come and practice swordplay. They walked side by side, each one in his thoughts, breathing deeper as they left the stinking corridors of the Red Keep to go outside. Rhaegar's favorite spot was a dusty corner of the yard, a place where the late afternoon sun shining in the prince's silver hair always distracted Jon. His head was pounding but he tried to regain his composure and prepared their weapons as he usually did. He was ready to ask Rhaegar if he wanted some squire to fetch his mail when the prince's hand brushed his forearm.

"It will not be necessary, my friend. I have changed my mind: we should talk. I owe you an explanation."

Rhaegar's words surprised him and his heart skipped a beat. He slowly turned around and stared at the prince's handsome face: the high forehead, the straight nose and the full lips he desperately wanted to kiss.

"What my father did, he did it to protect me," Rhaegar began. "I am sure he did it to protect me. It was crazy all the same."

The prince avoided his gaze and watched Maegor's Holdfast as if he had never seen it before. Jon shifted so that he came into Rhaegar's range of vision.

"You have doubts, of course," Rhaegar went on, locking eyes with his. "You remember the king decided to attend the Tourney at Harrenhal because he thought I was plotting against him. And suddenly, a surge of love and fear for his son's life... You are right, Jon. My father, our king, lost his mind, and those men, even if they threatened my life, didn't deserve to die."

Jon kept silent and let his eyes wander on Rhaegar's large shoulders. The prince usually stood straight and his square shoulders were one of the things people noticed when they first saw him, but that day, Rhaegar was so appalled he seemed round-shouldered.

"Maybe you should go while it's not too late, Jon," he suggested, a poor smile on his face. "You know these families will not forgive what happened. We could have a war."

"We can fight them, Your Grace," Jon said with stubbornness.

A nervous laugh escaped Rhaegar's lips. "Don't call me 'Your Grace' today. We are only two friends talking about their future. Lord Merryweather might be a good Hand of the King in peacetime, still... Merryweather fighting them would be a mummer's farce. Don't deny it. That's why I think you should go back to the Stormlands while you still have time."

Jon gave him a long look. _You didn't confide in me after the Tourney at Harrenhal and now you want me to go away?_

"I am not sure there is a future for you here," Rhaegar whispered. "We are dancing on the precipice. The next decision my father takes, the realm could leap into the void."

"If we leap into the void, I might as well be by your side."

Jon's answer made Rhaegar blink and he gave him a reproachful gaze. _Oh, no. Don't tell me you don't know. You know how I feel about you._ Jon couldn't take his words back; he didn't want to.

"The Starks and the other ones died because of me," Rhaegar insisted. "Because of what I did. I am responsible for their deaths. I should have been here. I should have fought Brandon Stark. You have nothing to do with this and I don't want you to die."

The purple eyes fluttered about him and gave him the strength he needed to grab the prince's upper arm. Surprised by his sudden boldness, Rhaegar stared at him.

"I would give my life for you," Jon growled. "I didn't spend all those years in King's Landing so that you can send me off. I choose to stay and to fight by your side."

When he let go with Rhaegar, he was shaking but he felt relieved. His eyes shut tight, the prince shook his head.

"I owe you an explanation. What happened... I didn't harm Lyanna, I swear."

_Lyanna._ He didn't say 'the girl' nor 'Lady Stark'. Using her first name sounded like a confession. Jon clenched his jaw.

"Princess Elia asked me so many questions," Rhaegar said. For a short while, he seemed to replay their unpleasant conversation in his mind. "What you have to understand-"

"I don't want to know," Jon cut him off.

Of course, Elia wanted to know every detail: she was young and silly. In the throes of jealousy, she was now crying on a feather bed, ruing the day er mother arranged her marriage to Rhaegar. If he didn't despise her, Jon could have felt sorry for the Dornish princess. He knew better than asking what had happened with the Stark girl; jealousy was so familiar to him he had learned not to feed it with details.

"Don't tell me anything," Jon begged. "Don't tell me but let me stay by your side."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We are not so different you and I,” he told Jon, stepping forward.  
> “Not so different?” Jon repeated, snorting. “I very much doubt it, Lord Varys.”  
> “No, we are not that different. We're faithful to the Targaryens, even when they take foolish decisions, like falling in love with the Stark girl or roasting her father because he dared to protest. Even when they refuse to see the impending danger, you and I will defend their interests. I'm afraid this loyal attitude is not so common in the Red Keep. That's why someday, when things turn badly – because hardships await the realm, that's an absolute certainty – we'll need to unite our strengths and fight the king's enemies.”

Jon woke up one day and Lady Ashara Dayne was gone. In the absurd kingdom Aerys ruled, people disappeared and died without rhyme or reason: the Red Keep's learned assembly noticed she was missing but preferred to turn a blind eye to this strange event. They all pretended nothing had occurred and focused on pointless matters such as the next tourney and the early ripening of the royal gardens' pomegranates.

Jon didn't care about Ashara Dayne; however, it was not the first time someone left the Red Keep from one day to the next. He didn't need to be infatuated with her, like poor Ser Barristan to wonder about Ashara's mysterious disappearance. He wanted to know if her hasty departure had something to do with her brother's absence and there was only one person who could answer to his questions: Lord Varys.

Jon didn't count the Lyseni eunuch among his friends: though they were of an age, it was nearly impossible to find two more different persons in King's Landing. The Lord of Griffin’s Roost presented himself as a soldier, taciturn, whose life went like clockwork between his duties in court and the ones he had in the Stormlands, whereas the master of whisperers was an unctuous foreigner, clever and crafty, loving secrets and conspiracies as much as garish silken clothes and scented powder. No doubt Varys would read his mind, even before Jon asked about Lady Ashara.

Despite his aversion for nosy people and his usual awkwardness whenever he met the eunuch, Jon found himself knocking at Lord Varys' door two days after Ashara left. The bald man welcomed him in his apartments with an obsequious yet surprised smile and closed the door behind him. _Right in the Spider's web. Curiosity will kill me someday._

He scanned the gorgeous quarters Varys lived in, observed the sophisticated furniture and expensive carpets selected and arranged with an exquisite taste: the embellishment made by the eunuch now that the king trusted him more and more reflected the master of whisperers' refinement and sense of scenery.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Varys asked. “I guess a man who is always in a hurry, like you, doesn't knock at my door without a good reason. Besides, I have a couple of ideas about the motives of your unexpected visit. Tell me everything, and we'll see if I was right.”

“Are we playing games, now?” Jon growled.

“Don't fly off the handle, my lord, I never meant to offend you,” he replied, chuckling. “I suppose your visit is related to Lady Ashara's sudden departure.”

Jon opened his eyes wide, even if he knew the eunuch's sagacity.

“Aye, we all noticed the lady-in-waiting is gone,” Varys said in an almost apologetic tone. “I feel for Princess Elia. And so do you, _of course_.”

A sly expression appeared on his face, as he stressed these last words. _Bloody eunuch._ _He's teasing me._

“Why did she leave the capital?” Jon finally asked as his guest offered him a seat.

“Why would a young and beautiful woman attending a princess leave court?” Varys whispered, carefully sitting on a pile of cushions. “I didn't know you had such an interest for her, my lord. I always thought-” An evasive smile on his full lips, he paused.  Jon grasped the sides of his armchair.

“Watch yourself, Lord Varys,” he grunted.

“I don't judge you. Who am I to judge you? I would even say it requires a certain amount of strength to stay here after his wedding. I’d call it self-sacrifice or rather recklessness now that we know the prince has a relationship with the Northern girl.”

_A relationship…_ Jon tried to ignore the anger growing inside him and looked at the eunuch straight in the eye.

“Does her absence have something to do with... Lyanna Stark?” he asked.

“What a curious theory! How would Princess Elia's faithful lady-in-waiting change sides and take care of the princess' love rival? You still have many things to learn about human relationships, my lord.”

“I didn't came here for a lesson, Varys. Why did she leave King's Landing overnight?”

The master of whisperers smoothed his purple silk tunic. “What is the worst enemy of a young and lovely lady-in-waiting?”

“Let's skip the charades. I don't have the slightest idea and I don’t have time for your-.”

“Pregnancy.”

Before Jon fully realized what he had said, Varys went on.

“You certainly remember the baleful Tourney at Harrenhal. During the festivities, Lady Ashara danced with three men: Ser Barristan, the young Eddard Stark and you. I'd wager her child's father is among them. Let me think about it... Barristan the Bold was never bold with women, so we can consider he's not the father. I would draw the same conclusions about the young Stark. Who stays in the race? You.”

“You have a curious sense of humor, Varys,” Jon rasped, leaning forward.

“Your feelings for the prince don't mean you can't enjoy feminine beauty and Lady Ashara is a beauty, isn't she?”

Appalled, Jon sat back in his armchair, looking into the void.

“Of course, it can't be you,” the eunuch said, repressing a smile. “You're not the kind of man who betrays his love. Still, Lady Ashara's personal life remains a closed book and I must admit I don't know whose child it is.”

“You fall short of your reputation,” Jon commented. The bald man's failure delighted him. “So she went back to Dorne?”

“My little birds say so,” Varys sighed.

Jon got on his feet, eager to put an end to their interview. The eunuch suddenly waved his chubby hand, as if to stop him.

“I don't know who was Lady Ashara's lover, but there are a couple of things I learned, lately,” he said in an undertone. “Did you know that after Jon Arryn raised his banners, half of the Vale noblemen refused to follow him? The Lord of Gulltown, Randyll Grafton was their leader. No doubt he wanted to take advantage of the situation once the rebellion was over and lusted after the Eyrie. The Hand of the King could have helped him in his undertaking, but Lord Merryweather trifles with the rebellion.”

“So Arryn is now fighting in the Vale against his own Bannermen?” Jon asked.

“I wish he was. Arryn defeated Grafton and Robert Baratheon is now sailing to the Stormlands. He'll soon have a host and so will the young Stark. Can you imagine how dangerous these armies are, once they joined forces?” Varys shook his head and let out a sigh. “Three of the Seven Kingdoms in open rebellion because the Hand fears the King's reaction!”

“I should go back to the Stormlands and fight Baratheon-”

“Certainly not, my lord. You'll have a role to play. Later on.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed; the eunuch exasperated him with his secrets and his condescending attitude. He gave him a cold stare as Varys stood up and smoothed his loose tunic.

“We are not so different you and I,” he told Jon, stepping forward.

“Not so different?” Jon repeated, snorting. “I very much doubt it, Lord Varys.”

“No, we are not that different. We're faithful to the Targaryens, even when they take foolish decisions, like falling in love with the Stark girl or roasting her father because he dared to protest. Even when they refuse to see the impending danger, you and I will defend their interests. I'm afraid this loyal attitude is not so common in the Red Keep. That's why someday, when things turn badly – because hardships await the realm, that's an absolute certainty – we'll need to unite our strengths and fight the king's enemies.”

Varys lost his subservient and hypocritical tone and gazed at him intensely.

“Still, there may be a difference between you and I, my lord,” he added, tilting his head. “I will always use my qualities at the service of the royal family whereas you would give your life for only one Targaryen. Sacrifice is very noble, but what's the point if all of Aegon's descendants are sent in exile or murdered? Lord Connington, I'm not asking you if you will fight for Prince Rhaegar, because I know you will. Will you fight for the entire royal family? If you decide to do whatever it takes to protect them, you can think of me as an ally.”

In his small eyes disappearing behind heavy eyelids, Jon could only read the eunuch's concern; it made a lasting impression on him and Varys’ worried gaze lingered in his mind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doubted things could be that worse, but when Varys came and knocked at his door, he began to think the persistent hearsay was true. A smug smile on his face, Varys told him his presence was needed in the Great Hall.  
> "The king has summoned everyone," Varys added, hiding his plump hands in his long saffron sleeves. "He is furious after what happened in Summerhall. Summerhall, such a tragic place for the Targaryens. The Tragedy happened what? Twenty years ago, and now-"  
> "Did you come here to brood over history?" Jon asked, with a hint of exasperation. "What does the king want with me? Attend another execution in the Great Hall?"  
> The Spider looked around, as if there could be spies behind the faded tapestries and simple furniture of Jon's apartments.  
> "You should be more careful, my friend," Varys warned him. "I give no credence to the rumor of Merryweather's execution. King Aerys will not do such a thing. Still..."  
> "What?" Jon asked, annoyed by the eunuch's simpering airs.  
> "The King needs your presence in the Great Hall and you will know soon enough what he plans for you."

Now that the Stormlands had become a battlefield and that everyone in King's Landing agreed to call the recent events Robert's Rebellion, the Red Keep was astir. Lord Owen Merryweather, the jocund old man who replaced Tywin Lannister as the Hand of the King, bore the responsibility of the royal defeat in Summerhall. _Three battles and three defeats in a day: how in Seven hells is it possible?_ This amazing event disconcerted everyone – and Jon lost his sense of propriety.

A few hours ago, as he returned to his apartments, Jon had heard voices whispering and lamenting about a lost battle; the rumor was already spreading throughout the castle. Lords, knights and maids troubled themselves at the news and denied the obvious: the royal army could not be defeated by an inexperienced young man who was known for his foolhardiness. Yet, the hot-headed rebel had vanquished the royal army led by three lords, killed one of them and captured his son. A most disturbing rumor said the two surviving lords – Cafferen and Grandison, both of them noblemen of the Stormlands – had changed sides and rallied behind the rebels' cause.

He doubted things could be that worse, but when Varys came and knocked at his door, he began to think the persistent hearsay was true. A smug smile on his face, Varys told him his presence was needed in the Great Hall.

"The king has summoned everyone," Varys added, hiding his plump hands in his long saffron sleeves. "He is furious after what happened in Summerhall. Summerhall, such a tragic place for the Targaryens. The Tragedy happened what? Twenty years ago, and now-"

"Did you come here to brood over history?" Jon asked, with a hint of exasperation. "What does the king want with me? Attend another execution in the Great Hall?"

The Spider looked around, as if there could be spies behind the faded tapestries and simple furniture of Jon's apartments.

"You should be more careful, my friend," Varys warned him. "I give no credence to the rumor of Merryweather's execution. King Aerys will not do such a thing. Still..."

"What?" Jon asked, annoyed by the eunuch's simpering airs.

"The King needs your presence in the Great Hall and you will know soon enough what he plans for you."

With a courteous bow, Varys left a puzzled Jon and silently hurried on his slippers. _How can a man wear something else than boots or clogs?_

Jon convinced himself King Aerys wanted him to lead the royal army in the Stormlands and defeat Robert Baratheon. All things considered, he was more experienced on a battlefield than the three lords beaten in Summerhall, despite his young age. And the Stormlands where Robert gathered his host were familiar to him. Perhaps he was the best choice to command the royal forces and crush the young rebel in his castle of Storm's End.

He smoothed the creases on his doublet, drank a cup of red wine and walked out of his apartments; on his way to the Great Hall, people seemed to notice his brisk pace and some of them, both ladies and counselors hurrying in the same direction, greeted him with an unexpected deference. _This is it: the rumor says I'm going to the Stormlands in replacement of the three fools who got killed or changed sides. They show their respect to those who'll fight for them while they're still in King's Landing. And alive. But what is King Aerys going to do with Merryweather?_

In spite of its large dimensions, the Great Hall burst at the seams; from the bronze doors to the dais where was the Iron Throne, people were crammed. Courtiers had rushed to know the king's decision about his Hand, anticipating the fall of a man whose fate was already sealed. At the foot of the narrow stairs leading to the throne, stood the fat figure of Lord Owen Merryweather, waiting Aerys' entrance. On the platform, Jon noticed the dark glow of the swords forged to make the back of the throne. The high windows provided a cold, crude light inside the Great Hall, emphasizing the deleterious atmosphere. Jon had given up the idea of watching the scene, because of the crowd, when he spotted Ser Jaime Lannister's golden curls and usual smirk. Tywin Lannister's son planted himself in front of him.

"Please come with me, my lord," the knight said. "It's not a worthy place for the lord of Griffin's Roost."

Jon wondered what his beloved Griffin's Roost had to do with it; he nevertheless followed the young member of the Kingsguard down the aisle. Once again, he felt curious looks on his face and did his best to ignore them. _How many men will I have? Will the king give me free rein? When am I leaving the capital? Is Rhaegar coming with me?_

They stopped in front of the dais, near some other members of the Kingsguard. Aerys and the royal family were not there yet and the king's advisors waited patiently on his right; as for Merryweather, he was shaking like a leaf. Jon looked inquiringly at Ser Barristan Selmy, then at Lord Varys: neither of them gave him the slightest indication.

Finally, the Great Hall went silent when the royal family showed up. The herald announced the King's entrance and Aerys appeared first, his slender form surrounded by Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Arthur Dayne. _Why do I have the impression the king has aged every time I see him?_ His tangled grey hair and beard didn't belong to a king, nor his excessively long nails. He stood in front of the Iron Throne, mumbling something, as his wife and sons followed him on the dais. "The King thinks out loud," courtiers reported with a sparkle of admiration in their eyes, but Jon didn't share their enthusiasm. In the small town near Griffin's Roost, there was also a man who talked to himself but people didn't sing his praises: for them, he was just the village idiot.

While his royal husband sat on the throne with a wealth of precautions, Queen Rhaella stood stoically by him and kept an eye on their youngest son; the crowd fascinated Viserys, who opened his eyes wide. Rhaegar brought up the rear. Jon immediately turned to him but his friend's impassible face remained a mystery: pale and thoughtful, almost contemplative, the Targaryen prince stopped in the shadow of the Iron Throne. Hightower and Dayne went down the stairs and Aerys cleared his throat. On Jon's right, Lord Merryweather seemed ready to faint.

"Lord Owen Merryweather!" the King bellowed, though there was no need to shout in the silent Great Hall, "I trusted you. The day I gave you this badge, I put the realm in your hands. And what have you done?"

The king's tone was so vehement Jon couldn't help looking at his feet and he noticed apprehension about the people standing next to him. In Ser Jaime's green eyes, he saw a hint of nervousness, despite his proud and martial attitude.

"You failed! What happened? You sent three incompetents to fight Lord Robert Baratheon and prevent him from gathering his host. They lost. Two of them changed sides! Two of them!"

At this point, the king looked at the assembly, calling everyone as witness to Merryweather's failure. Some nodded, others whispered their concern.

"Two of them," the King repeated after a while, regaining his composure, "changed sides. Lord Cafferen and Lord Grandison. I, Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, deprive them from their lands and titles, as a just chastisement for their treason. Their lands now belong to the crown."

Aerys shifted on the throne and Queen Rhaella cocked her head for fear he cut himself on one of the blades. As she moved ever so slightly, the jade green pleated dress she wore revealed her bulging stomach and behind him, someone gasped. _She's with child._

Unaware of the assembly's curiosity toward the queen, Aerys went on.

"As for you, Lord Merryweather, the lost battle of Summerhall and its consequences feed speculation. I can't believe Cafferen and Grandison's treason is mere coincidence."

The king paused, glaring at Merryweather, and everyone, from the Kingsguards to the servants who had deserted the royal stables in order to watch the scene, held their breath. The Hand of the King glanced frantically, looking for some terrifying device which would gave him a long and painful death. _He's thinking of Lord Rickard, he doesn't want to burn alive._ Still, there was no pyromancer nor torture stake in the crowded Great Hall.

"History will judge you, Lord Merryweather. You are the Hand who betrayed his King and sent traitors to fight a rebel. All this was planned, I realize it now."

"No!" Merryweather protested. "I didn't betray you, Your Grace, I didn't-"

Aerys lifted his hands to shush the fat and squeaking man huddled up at the foot of the stairs.

"Enough! I am tired of lame excuses. You are no longer my Hand. You are no longer the lord of Longtable: I strip you of your lands and titles and banish you."

Panting, Merryweather raised an astonished gaze to his king. _He thought he would be sentenced to death. Why did Aerys choose to send him in exile?_ The answer came when the king turned to his eldest son; Rhaegar nodded imperceptibly. Merryweather owes his life to Rhaegar, not to Aerys' sudden burst of leniency. _Who will be the new Hand? To whom will I have to obey?_

"Out!" the king hissed in a threatening tone. "You do not belong here, now, and I have to designate the man who will rule the realm and defeat Robert of House Baratheon."

The Great Hall went silent again and Jon felt for the poor soul who would be Aerys Targaryen's third Hand. _Obey a mad king and fight a hothead... If Aerys sends me to the Stormlands, I'll do my best to help him._

"Lord Jon Connington!" the king shouted.

Startled, Jon peered at the royal family gathered around the Iron Throne; emotionless, Queen Rhaella and Prince Rhaegar looked him back. _What? Why does he calls me before calling his new Hand?_ As he didn't react fast enough, Ser Barristan Selmy grabbed his arm and brought him in front of the black throne covered with spiky blades. Jon knelt and behind him, people began to whisper.

"Lord Jon Connington," Aerys repeated, still frowning. "The realm needs someone young and strenuous. Someone as young and skilled as our enemy, someone who knows the Stormlands as well as this young rebel. Henceforth, you are the Hand of the King."

Ser Barristan Selmy tugged his sleeve and Jon stood up, then climbed the stairs leading to the Iron Throne. _It doesn't make sense, it's impossible, I'm too young..._ He knelt again in front of the king and as he ducked his head, he caught a glimpse of Lord Varys; the eunuch nodded encouragingly. _Bloody Spider! He whispered my name to the king. He should know I'm not ready._ On the throne, Aerys shifted once more.

"Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost, will you serve your king loyally?"

His heart beating wildly, Jon bowed down, then raised his head.

"I will, Your Grace."

His words were for the king, but Jon was only staring at his prince.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It makes me sick every time I realize how people treat me here: a girl only meant to smile and give heirs." Elia's bitter tone struck him. "A broodmare... My father was kinder towards his mares. I should not think, I should not talk, but I'm scared. I'm so terrified, Jon."  
> She never used his name and it sounded different when escaping her lips; ill-at ease, he looked at the inlaid wooden floor. The pattern of suns recalled House Martell's sigil and right under his feet, a big sun made of light wood contrasted with dark mahogany. He scowled.  
> "What do you want from me, Your Grace?" he finally asked Elia.  
> "If things get worse, will you protect us – Princess Rhaenys, the baby and me?"  
> "We are going to win this war. Have you lost your faith in the royal army?"  
> "I do not care about the royal army. I care about my children."  
> "Of course, I will protect you. Why in Seven Hells would I-"  
> "Swear it," she commanded. "You won't leave until you swear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And one day, Jon realized Princess Elia might not be as silly and annoying as he thought she was...

The news from Ashford had been oddly comforting in King's Landing. As Jon spent his first days as the new Hand of the King, Mace Tyrell had sent a dozen ravens to the capital, claiming his victory against Robert – before people began to whisper about the young Randyll Tarly's decisive action during the battle. The fact that the wealthy and proud Lord of Highgarden boasted about his triumph against the rebels didn't bother Jon – Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly were just like two peasant boys quarreling to know whoever pissed the farthest – but what he saw in the Stormlands when he arrived and questioned some soldiers dampened his spirits.

Robert's host had not been crushed; he had simply left the western Stormlands to go North and try to link up with his allies. His stronghold of Storm's End was not in the hands of the loyalists: Robert's young brother Stannis resisted with an unexpected stubbornness for a boy of his age. In King's Landing, people clung to the idea everything was getting better since Merryweather's dismissal but they were wrong; you only needed to leave the capital to realize Robert was no minor threat.

Thus, Jon's only chance to prevent Robert from joining the Arryn and Stark forces was to hunt him down as the rebel army headed to the Riverlands. _I have to stop them. As soon I get rid of Robert, I'll go back to King's Landing._ However hard he tried to convince himself, Jon knew he didn't regret King's Landing but only one person who lived in the Red Keep, though his absences were more frequent these days. Prince Rhaegar had once more disappeared the day before Jon left for the Stormlands. Jon never had a chance to bid him farewell, and since that painful moment when he realized Rhaegar had nearly sneaked out of the Red Keep, he wondered if the prince had done it on purpose. _To torture me? Or did he simply forget because the Stark girl is the only one that matters?_

There was someone else in the capital who felt neglected and sad and lonely. Princess Elia, the very last person he expected to see before leaving the Red Keep, had asked for him and he had dragged his feet to Maegor's Holdfast.

The princess' bedchamber was bathed in a golden-orange light – bright and almost yellow in the morning, amber during the afternoon. It was just after noon and the sun flooded the room with a cheerful light, contrasting with Elia's expression. The delivery would come soon; she was still lying on her huge four-poster bed, hands folded on her rounded belly, as if she didn't move since his last visit to her. An anxious wrinkle crumpled her angel face.

"I wasn't sure you would come," she said shyly after the usual exchange of civilities. She looked like a little girl, lost in the outsized bed and indifferent to the gorgeous ornament of the bedroom. "Please have a seat, my lord."

"I won't stay for a long time," he answered stiffly, standing very straight, in a soldierly attitude.

She granted him with one of her smiles, not the perfect beaming one she generously offered to the noblemen and high-born ladies hanging out in the castle, but a sad, forlorn smile he had never seen.

"I wish we could be good friends, you and I," she went on. "I used to think of me as a lucky person, always getting what I wanted, even before I knew I wanted it... These days it seems that my wishes are just wishes. I wish... I wish my husband were here, but he just walked out, without saying anything."

In the long, tear-filled gaze she gave him, Jon understood she was as desperate as he was. _And she thought Rhaegar was hers. She thought he would never leave her, while I always knew my dreams were hopeless._ Words were stuck in his throat so he simply looked back at her and stepped forward, putting one of his large hands on the post of her bed.

What was this sudden impression? He felt his chest constricting as tears ran down Elia's cheeks: forgetting her goods manners and the lectures about how discreet a lady should be, she began to cry. The sound of her unrestrained sobs filled the room for a while, until the abrupt rise and fall of her chest startled Jon. _What if she faints?_ He didn't know anything about women's health and child-bearing; in some way, it scared him more than the prospect of chasing Robert's host in the Stormlands.

"Your Grace..." he said tentatively.

She gasped and, at that point, as she raised a red and wet face to him, her vulnerability struck Jon.

"Prince Rhaegar will be back in time, to see his child," he offered, wondering why he was suddenly so kind with a woman he despised.

"You don't even believe what you say," she retorted, wiping her tears with her pretty hands. Jon held out his handkerchief and she gladly took it.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I'm not good at comforting people."

"This is not why I asked you to come," she whispered, laying back against the plump pillows. "We don't really appreciate each other, do we? I'd better be honest with you; I used to think of you as my enemy. However, we have some common interest. We both thought we could change Prince Rhaegar."

Jon sucked in deeply. _How does she dare? I don't want to talk about Rhaegar with her..._

"The realm needs you," she said softly. "You probably believe I should not discuss politics because I am only a silly young woman, but I know King Aerys was right when he chose you. You will do whatever it takes to protect the Seven Kingdoms. Will you do the same for my children?"

He sudden felt as if she backed him to a corner. What was this question about the children? Did she mistake him for some wet nurse? Shifting back and forth on his feet, Jon glared at her.

"If things get worse, will you protect Rhaegar's children?" she begged.

"In your condition, we shouldn't discuss such matters," he answered curtly, but Elia's bright brown eyes met his and he couldn't do anything but looking back at her.

"You always think of me as a naive girl, don't you? _'Let's not tell Princess Elia, she can't handle this.'_ "

This strange rebuke wasn't only for him: exasperated, she turned to the folding screen and stared at the lacquered wooden panels, repressing another sob, before facing him again.

"It makes me sick every time I realize how people treat me here: a girl only meant to smile and give heirs. A broodmare. My father was kinder towards his mares. I should not think, I should not talk, but I'm scared. I'm so terrified, Jon."

She never used his name and it sounded different when escaping her lips; ill-at ease, he looked at the inlaid wooden floor. The pattern of suns recalled House Martell's sigil and right under his feet, a big sun made of light wood contrasted with dark mahogany. He scowled.

"What do you want from me, Your Grace?" he finally said.

"If things get worse, will you protect us – Princess Rhaenys, the baby and me?"

"We are going to win this war. Have you lost your faith in the royal army?"

"I do not care about the royal army. I care about my children."

"Of course, I will protect you. Why in Seven Hells would I-"

"Swear it," she commanded. "You won't leave until you swear."

Her big brown eyes shone with a mix of anger and anxiety when she wiped a tear running down her cheek. Jon was at a loss and silently observed her for a while; he hated tears and emotional outbursts, he despised those who used their weakness to win over him. He toyed with the idea of playing for time, but he was not that kind of man and he finally chose to tell the princess he didn't have to swear some stupid oath. Before he could say anything though, she called for one of her ladies-in-waiting.

A door located on the left, barely visible thanks to the wall hanging hiding it, opened suddenly and some Dornish girl Elia brought with her showed up. The girl opened her eyes wide when she saw a man in the bedroom and a disapproving look appeared on her face; it only vanished when the princess told her to let her daughter in.

The servants had decked out Rhaenys in a long silken dress that annoyed her; without ever looking at Jon, she trotted about and stopped in front of her mother.

"Your Grace," Jon said, bowing slightly.

Princess Rhaenys turned around, probably recalling her mother's lessons about politeness.

"Red hair!" she exclaimed with a gleeful smile.

Elia grabbed her daughter's forearm and lectured her in an undertone; in the meantime, she mindlessly stroked her stomach, then the little girl's light brown locks. Jon wanted to leave these apartments filled with trinkets, hushed voices and this sweetish smell typical from a woman's bedroom, but the harm had been done.

"I'll do it," he said abruptly, cutting off Elia's scolding. "I swear I'll protect you and the children. If things get worse, I'll take you out of this place."

When he saw her lips trembling as she nodded gratefully, Jon prayed that the princess wouldn't cry again. After a few heartbeats, she let go of her daughter and granted him a smile. Sat on the inlaid wooden floor and playing with one her mother's bracelets, Rhaenys had forgotten them.

"As Your Grace probably knows, I'm going to the Stormlands, that's why you should talk to Lord Varys. Lord Varys will see to your protection until I get back."

"I already talked to Lord Varys. In fact, he came to me and... this conversation was his idea," she confessed.

Jon gasped. _Bloody eunuch! He played me for a fool. And she used me, she tried to move me to pity._ He left her room with the unpleasant impression of being a puppet in the Spider's hands, but he had given his word all the same.

Now that he was chasing down Robert in the Stormlands, he clenched his teeth whenever he looked back on his promise; Varys had twisted his arm. Regardless of the ravens coming from the capital and bringing news about the finances of the Seven Kingdoms, regardless of his tracking of the rebels, Jon couldn't help thinking of Elia and the little princess who called him _'Red hair'_. He thought of how he would help them if Robert managed to join his allies. How he would protect a woman he hated because he had taken a vow.

* * *

Despite the chaos surrounding them – men fighting and yelling everywhere, royalist foot soldiers throwing themselves on rebel knights and arrows coming from both sides and whistling above his head – everything was clear in Jon's head: Robert was panting in front of him and the rebellion stirring the realm since a few months could be over soon.

He couldn't remember when was the last time he had met the eldest son of Steffon Baratheon, but he had significantly changed since then: taller, with broad shoulders enclosed in heavy plate. Indifferent to his equipment's weight, Robert had run to him as soon as he caught a glimpse at Jon's sigil; bellowing and waving his long sword as if he was possessed, he had attacked Jon and made him step back until they hit a steed's corpse. A seething rage had took hold of Jon and he fought back, surprising his young opponent. Behind the visor of his helmet, Robert was getting nervous, not understanding why he couldn't get rid of him as fast as he did with Lord Grafton and Lord Fell. Killing the leader of his enemies in single combat becomes an habit about Robert. _I'll make him fall out of the habit._

Jon's blade stroke on Robert's cuirass; he winced in pain, but barely moved. All around them, the shouting and the loud crash of steel was deafening, however Jon knew exactly what to do. Methodically, he countered Robert's furious and disorganized blows and backed him between a cart full of supplies and the ruins of a mill where the skirmish had begun. When Robert showed signs of tiredness, Jon's blows intensified and he aimed at the joints of his armor. His opponent was bathed in sweat underneath his breastplate but he knew what Jon was doing and bravely attacked once more. Since a few minutes, Jon was looking at the joint between the cuirass and the gorget, guessing he could easily wound his enemy if he ever stroke there; he risked it all and stabbed Robert near the collarbone. The Lord of Storm's End collapsed and he thought for a heartbeat it was over, before noticing the rebel knights running to him and to their leader. Springing up from nowhere, they pushed him and hauled a wounded Robert on the cart; while half of the knights hurried on the gentle slopes of the hill, the rest of them prevented Jon and his men to follow the cart. Jon and his companions fought back, cut some of the rebels to pieces, but the fools seemed glad to give their lives for Robert and to protect his retreat. Jon commanded his troops to chase down the cart, but the rebel host was already reorganized, some seasoned knights gone with Robert and most of his army holding back the royalists and preventing them to leave the hill.

Dozens of men died that day, protecting Robert's retreat: they knew what was at stake. Without Robert, the rebellion would vanished instantly. For now, Jon ruled over the foul-smelling ruins of a mill covered with corpses, forgotten weaponsl. At the end of the day, even if he had prisoners, even if he had crushed a part of Robert's forces, he felt the bitter taste of defeat.

* * *

A scout had spotted the Baratheon host in the outskirts of Stoney Sept, in the Riverlands, and as soon as Jon got the information, the soldiers had made a forced march through the night. _Heading North, to join Arryn and maybe Stark. If he meet them, I don't have enough forces to outweigh them. And the Tullys._ The eldest daughter was betrothed to Brandon Stark; her father could join the rebellion or at least allow Baratheon to cross his lands without doing anything...

Despite the weariness and the amount of wounded men, the royal army progressed silently in the hummocky landscape as the Stormlands gave way to the Riverlands; Jon feared another skirmish or a sudden attack led by Robert's rearguard, some vicious maneuver planned by the rebels, but nothing came. Everything was quiet as they made their way to the small town, and the chilly wind of the night only brought more pain for those who had been injured and a certain discomfort for the rest of them, including himself.

Being the Hand of the King didn't spare Jon the hardships his soldiers suffered; he rode his horse as if he led a dozen men, not as the dignitary he had become overnight. He was with the vanguard, because Aerys expected no less from him. Neither the lack of sleep nor the tiredness in his bones would prevent him from doing his duty towards the crown. _And he will acknowledge my value; I'll bring Robert's head to his father and I'll say nothing. I'll just look at his face and he will know I killed Robert for him._

The ground became hilly as they approached Stoney Sept. The moon retreated slowly and red hues appeared on the east, revealing the first wooden houses of the town. At the top of the hill, high walls surrounded Stoney Sept like the hands of a man around the waist of his bride and below, on the steep slopes furrowed by the rainy spring, hovels and thatched houses were visible in the first rays of light.

Men, women and children asleep in their tiny houses, unaware of the danger coming for them, unaware of the struggle between a bunch of rebel lords and the king. Another scout, a beanpole born in fishing village of the Stormlands, came back and dismounted in front of him.

"He's inside, my lord. Don't know how Robert got inside, whether the inhabitants let him or not, but he's inside. What shall we do?"

As the breathless man stared at him, Jon reflected intensely. He thought of only one option: sneak in and find Robert. _Kill him in single combat like he did with my predecessors._ Jon rubbed the sleep of his eyes and looked at the granite walls at the top of the hill. _People won't remember me as the butcher of Stoney Sept._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this fic!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange atmosphere filled the streets of Stoney Sept at the end of the day; with Robert still missing despite the broken doors, with the hostages in the crow cages bravely enduring the lack of food and water, the royal army seemed defeated. Neither looting, nor rape, nor murder had been reported in the city, but as the sun retreated from the sky, they looked more and more like a bunch of outlaws, scaring the inhabitants to get what they wanted.  
> When he heard some knight bellowing _'Where is he? Where is he?'_ , Jon wondered if he was talking about Robert or about a pile of money hidden in the darkest corner of a basement. Regardless of his men's irreproachable behavior, the townsfolk glared at them and now showed their hostility. Somehow, they had already lost in the eyes of the inhabitants, because Robert had forced them to act like thieves and criminals; this small victory against the royal army galvanized the people of Stoney Sept. The second night came and brought neither good news nor sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly about the events happening in Stoney Sept, right before the Battle of the Bells, while tension was building up in the town...  
> Thank you for reading this! The last comments I received really encouraged me.

He desperately waited for a message. Two ravens came, but none of them brought him the words he was longing for.

A man who had crossed the Narrow Sea and visited the Free Cities had told him once the fighting pits of Meeren were covered with a velum protecting the audience from the pitiless sun when festivities lasted all day long; an army of slaves unfurled huge sails to shelter both viewers and fighters. That day, the sky above Stoney Sept mimicked a velum, with heavy clouds that seemed to get closer from the ground and took golden hues as they filtered the sun rays. The arena where he was supposed to fight was up there, enclosed in the grey walls, and Jon still didn't know what to do.

_Do the fighters hesitate like this before coming in and hearing the crowd shouting for them or for their opponent?_

His squire brought him the first message at dawn, right after they had stopped at the foot of the hill. Jon immediately recognized Vary's sloping handwriting.

_"Prince Rhaegar said it was time to ask for Tywin Lannister's help; the king was reluctant, but he finally accepted. I am not optimistic though, and I fear what the Lannisters may demand in return._

_About what we already discussed, I try to prepare the King's mind so that he allows Princess Elia to go back to Dorne where she would be safer. Despite my efforts, he doesn't want to let her go."_

Jon sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then lowered his gaze to the Spider's message. Even leagues away, Varys seemed able to read Jon's mind.

_"Prince Rhaegar disappeared from the Red Keep and, as none of my little birds saw him take the roads leading to Dorne, I doubt if he is in the South or on his way to meet you. The King was so furious when he heard the prince was gone, I lean towards the second hypothesis..."_

Jon's heart began to beat wildly. If Rhaegar came, everything would be different and he was sure to win, because the royal army worshiped the prince and so did the smallfolk. No matter what Robert had said or done to them, the inhabitants of this town would forget the rebel as soon as Rhaegar would show up. Yet, the prospect of Rhaegar involved in this battle worried Jon, not only because he would have more pressure fighting at his side, but above all because he didn't want his prince to take any risk. Robert would find him and challenge him, for sure. Rhaegar would never accept to stay away from the battle.

That was disturbing enough to prevent him from deciding quickly what kind of attack he would lead in Stoney Sept. The sun was already high in the sky when he ordered his men to surround the city and stay in front of the different gates. He led a part of his forces to the main gate.

There was a skirmish at the main gate, between his men and some stupid young men of the town who wouldn't let them in; when two of them died under one of the knights’ sword, the huge doors slowly turned on their hinges and they were able to enter Stoney Sept. Jon ordered to open the other gates, just long enough to allow the royal army to come in; then, all the gates were closed and guarded by a couple of his men. The creaking noise the main gate made behind him – a lingering, threatening sound – should have warned him he wouldn't leave this town with the glory he sought, that many men would die there before the doors opened again.

Jon headed to the market of Stoney Sept and gathered the inhabitants – not all of them, but the main part was there, under the blank stare of the giant leaping trout in the fountain – to speak to them. He wanted Robert Baratheon now and he wanted their full cooperation.

"And what if we don't give him to you, my lord?" a man in his forties dared to ask.

"We'll search for him in every house of your town, and my men won't have the patience I show you right now. As we are courteously talking, some of them are already in the sewers to look for the rebel lord of Storm's End. He's nothing to you, so you'd better hand him over to me, before your bloody town looks like a battlefield."

The crowd remained perfectly silent and, in the eyes of the inhabitants, Jon saw a hint of resistance that struck him; they didn't mean to give him Robert, even wounded, even forgotten by his men. He couldn't decide if the Baratheon host had left his leader to the care of the smallfolk and hid outside of the town to attack them at night, or if underneath the common clothes of the men who listened to him there were knights of the Stormlands and foot soldiers who would give their life to Robert; maybe both hypotheses were correct.

"Seize this man," he commanded, "the one who asked a question."

The man's face went crimson and two women standing behind him – probably his wife and his daughter – began to scream and to beg.

"Do we have crow cages?" Jon asked.

"Indeed, my lord," a young knight answered on his right.

"Bring the crow cages then, and lock him inside. Neither food nor water for him until someone give us information about Robert."

The wife and daughter went on sobbing and this annoying sound made Jon wonder if this man would be his only hostage or if there would be more crow cages, hanging from the trees, swaying in the air.

A few minutes later, one of the knights of the Stormlands still faithful to the crown ran to him, holding a dead raven in his hands.

"Someone tried to send this bird from a tower, my lord; I ordered the archers to feather it, then we did our best to find the damn crow. Thought you would like to read the message."

Jon congratulated him and eagerly took the scroll tied to the raven's foot.

_"Lord Robert is wounded and hides himself in Stoney Sept, with some of us. Connington just entered the town. We need your help and Lord Arryn's as well..."_

Ser Farring signed the message. _They're in, of course. They hide under commoners clothes and wait for their allies to come._ He read again the last sentence and clenched his teeth.

"This message was for Eddard Stark, obviously," he told the knight. "Where is the raven addressed to Lord Arryn?"

The knight shook his head in dismay.

"The archers only saw one bird taking flight from the tower. When my men came in and searched, they couldn't find anyone, nor new messages, nor ravens."

_While I was gathering people on the market square, all my men were busy; any rebel could have sent a raven without us noticing it._

"We killed several ravens since dawn, though," the knight added, "when we were waiting outside of the gates."

 _When I was waiting for Rhaegar to come. But he won't._ Now Jon was sure about it.

* * *

The search began after he sent scouts outside of Stoney Sept, while foot soldiers were on patrol on the walls of the town. Each group of the remaining men had a specific task: some had volunteered to stay in the sewers, in case Robert would choose the most filthy exit; others went house to house, smashed the doors, looked in every damn corner and, when it was done, marked the building with some red paint they had found in a merchant's storehouse.

Thus, the number of houses bearing the mark of infamy rose dramatically before the end of the day; crow cages were soon filled with men and even women who had resisted Jon's knights. They swayed in the dusk light, strange birds locked in their cages, mute and stubborn, stoically looking down on their gaolers, keeping their darkest stare for Jon.

At sunset, Robert was nowhere to be found, everyone was exhausted and a long night full of threats awaited them. His squire begged him to take some rest, even for an hour or two, but Jon wouldn't listen. He gave more orders to allow some of his men to sleep while the others patrolled the rebel town and he kept scrutinizing an old map of the city, pointing at the areas his men had already searched.

_This town is a nest of traitors; each and everyone of them, from the old men to the little children took Robert's side and they take pride in their sufferings because they protect him. They're probably moving him from one place to the other._

He told his men to stop every cart they saw, guessing a wounded Robert would be transported on a cart, like a pile of logs. The inhabitants had already shut themselves in their houses, doing their best with the broken doors and a large part of his men spent the night waiting for suspicious carts in the streets of Stoney Sept. _In vain._

* * *

The second day they spent in Stoney Sept, the search went on.

 _This is a mummer's farce._ All the houses had been visited by his men, and the inhabitants had done their best to fix what remained of their front doors. The gables of the big proud houses of the merchants looked exactly like the hovels’ facades: the doors were smashed and repaired with mismatched planks and every building, old or new, built with fine granite or made of wattle and daub, bore the same crimson mark.

The knights began their search at dawn, shouting louder than the day before. Walking through the streets to pay a visit to his men crawling in the sewers, Jon saw one of their groups in front of a tavern, trying to force the door open.

"You'd better open this fucking door and cooperate!" the knight leading his men roared. "I'm loosing patience!"

 _We all are_ , Jon thought bitterly. One of the oldest knights had reported to him that merchants and inn-keepers protested about their goods; with the doors smashed, their belongings weren't safe anymore. Some talked about thieves; they were ready to accuse his men of stealing goods during the search.

His squire ran into him before he could reach the hole where half a dozen men had slipped into the sewers. He held a message in his hands. _Varys, again._

_"Princess Elia gave birth to a son, a few hours ago. The maesters say she will not have another child. Prince Rhaegar didn't come back and I am now sure he is in Dorne._

_We are waiting for Tywin Lannister's good will and pray for your success in the Riverlands. Don't waste time, though: the other rebel hosts are close, now..."_

Mindlessly, he crumpled the scroll and made a tiny ball of it; this childish gesture didn't soothe his nerves, though. He was exhausted, alone, and the premonition of a disaster darkened his mind like the heavy clouds banking up in the sky of the Riverlands. A saturnine laugh escaped his lips as he realized Elia felt exactly the same: they both had done their duty, only relying on themselves since Rhaegar was far away, but weariness overwhelmed them both and they knew some terrible fate awaited them. _Except that Elia already lost Rhaegar: what can happen to her now?_

A strange atmosphere filled the streets of Stoney Sept at the end of the day; with Robert still missing despite the broken doors, with the hostages in the crow cages bravely enduring the lack of food and water, the royal army seemed defeated. Neither looting, nor rape, nor murder had been reported in the city, but as the sun retreated from the sky, they looked more and more like a bunch of outlaws, scaring the inhabitants to get what they wanted.

When he heard some knight bellowing _'Where is he? Where is he?'_ , Jon wondered if he was talking about Robert or about a pile of money hidden in the darkest corner of a basement. Regardless of his men's irreproachable behavior, the townsfolk glared at them and now showed their hostility. Somehow, they had already lost in the eyes of the inhabitants, because Robert had forced them to act like thieves and criminals; this small victory against the royal army galvanized the people of Stoney Sept. The second night came and brought neither good news nor sleep.

* * *

_Besieged. Besieging Stoney Sept but besieged by Arryn and Stark and some of the troops led by Robert who couldn't hide themselves in the city._

When a scout had reported the news, he had felt almost relieved: the disaster he had waited for was there, almost tangible. And he needed to fight, like his men, rather than smashing doors and scaring old women.

Jon reorganized his forces quickly, surprising his soldiers and giving them a flash of pride. _At least, they appreciate my efforts._ A third of the troops, including himself, remained in the city, to search the houses, while the rest of his men dedicated themselves to the impending battle with the besiegers. He gave the command to a Dornishman, Lord Yronwood, and prayed for reinforcements, even if he knew Aerys wouldn't send more troops to augment the numbers. The never-ending wait was over and he took the command of half-a-dozen men looking for Robert in the area of the market square. There, the buildings were so close from each other, the balcony of one house almost touching the window of the tavern across the street, Jon thought it was the best place to hide someone and move him from time to time. _Robert must be here. If I was a fucking coward hiding myself behind civilians, I would choose these streets._

The blood rushed to his face, and he flexed the fingers of his sword hand with anticipation. _We're besieged and my men are tired of the previous fights, whereas Arryn and Stark bring with them fresh troops. All this is true, but if I can kill Robert, the outcome of the battle going on behind the walls doesn't matter._

The first building of the street was a shop held by a cobbler, already visited twice by his men; they only had to push the door this time, and they looked in every corner while the cobbler gathered his four children around him.

"The next houses?" he asked Ser Allyrion, a dornish knight afflicted with a severe squinting.

"Two taverns, a building sheltering several families, one brothel, my lord."

The two taverns had nothing to offer except the furious glare of their respective owners – the customers had deserted when the second search had begun. Jon led his men in the building shared by several families when one archer stopped him.

"Seven fucking Hells!" he shouted, "Robert is here!"

Jon turned his head quickly enough to see Robert Baratheon leaving the brothel, glancing at them and finally running in the opposite direction. There was another man with him, but before Jon could process what was happening, they all hurried themselves behind the runaways.

"Robert is mine!" he shouted to his men.

His order was useless: he commanded them, he was the Hand of the King and they all agreed to give him the right of killing Robert. They were running on the cobbled and slippery streets of the old town when a deafening noise made him realize where they arrived and what was happening.

"What is it?" Ser Allyrion shouted, squinting more than ever, "is it a fucking knell?"

A big house with a fancy tower hid its massive form from their eyes, but Jon knew exactly where Robert had led them. _The Sept. And there's no knell today, no funeral: it's the only way to warn Robert's men to leave their hiding-places and to attack us._

As soon as he arrived in the square in front of the Sept, he noticed men coming from all directions, dressed in common clothes and taking their weapons from under their cloak. _We're outnumbered_ , he realized, looking around, _we are outnumbered and Robert is standing on the stairs_. The bells still rang loudly, and it sounded like thunderclaps echoing and following one another.

Somehow, the stairs of the Sept mimicked those leading to the Iron Throne in the Red Keep, except Robert waited for him instead of Aerys. A few days ago, he had not chosen to climb the stairs to become the new Hand of the King, but refusal had not been an option. That day, he didn't ask himself if he wanted to climb those stairs and face Robert: everything seemed obvious. He winced in pain at the sound of the bells, unsheathed his longsword, while the archer collapsed on the cobblestones, wounded by a rebel. Robert's men seemed to ignore him and focused on the soldiers still faithful to the crown, as if their leader had warned them the Hand of the King was his.

The sight of Jon beginning his ascent of the stairs, sword in hand, elicited a smug smile on Robert's lips. Jon didn't know how that was possible, but the man he had wounded by the mill had recovered and seemed as dangerous as before, clad in his heavy plate, holding firmly his longsword and waiting for him as the bells still rang furiously.

 _Rhaegar_ , he thought.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While answering evasively to his squire whose agitation grew by the minute, Jon became aware he wouldn't see Rhaegar before leaving the Red Keep. He felt both furious and doleful when an argument in the corridor made him turn his head. The guards were quarreling with someone who demanded to see him. Before he could reach the door, the intruder had already opened it and he saw Princess Elia coming in, her daughter on her heels. Leaning back against the wall and almost out of breath, she was the shadow of her former self, tired and unsteady on her feet; her olive skin was now white-yellow, with a waxen aspect, and strands of brown hair stuck to her damp temples. Jon caught a glimpse at the anxious lady-in-waiting who had guided her along the corridors and closed the door.  
> "You shouldn't be here," he said in a reproachful tone, deliberately forgetting salutation and gallantry.  
>  _After all, my dismissal means I won't have to play their games anymore._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last confrontation between Jon and Princess Elia before his exile in Essos...

The carriage shuddered on the dirt road leading to King's Landing and the slightest jolt hurt his body. Wounded and sore, bumping along like a bunch of dirty linen tossed at the back of a cart, Jon would have given anything to sleep or to forget the past days and what awaited him in the capital.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the shale stairs he had climbed to face Robert, their dark grey color, their flaws, the spots where too many boots and clogs had rubbed, carving the stone. He even felt the warmth radiating from the shale at that hour of the day. The monumental staircase had lost its luster and that day, the day Robert left his hiding place and finally showed up, it was just the best spot to watch the royal army grappling with the rebels hidden under the clothes of commoners so far.

He had fallen on these stairs, when Robert's longsword had hit his shoulder and chest; he had thought he would die there, in front of the bronze door concealing the inside of the sept from curious eyes, because his men had such a hard time with the rebels they couldn't do anything for him. He let his mind wander to the Red Keep, to the yard where he used to train with Rhaegar, then to Griffin's Roost, remembered the first impression he had had on his prince.  _ "How can someone have purple eyes and silver-blond hair?" _ This inner interrogation had been soon replaced by another " _ How can a boy be so handsome and yet seem so strong?" _

His thoughts had drifted as he genuinely believed he would be dead soon, embracing the beloved shores of the Stormlands and Maegor's Holdfast, the lands of his father and the places he had visited with Rhaegar and finally focused on Rhaegar himself – his figure, the strands of silver hair brushing his cheekbones, the veins so visible on his hands every time he tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword. Jon knew his last breath would bring a single name on his lips, and right when he had accepted his fate, only ruing his failure against the rebellion, two hands had lifted him from the shale stairs and he had thought confusedly he just wanted to die there, like the young archer who had perished a minute earlier, if he couldn't kill Robert and bring back his head to the capital. His savior, though, grunted and lifted him over his shoulder, keeping a hand on the small of his back.  _ Like a knight rescuing a fucking damsel in distress. _

Being carried away from the square where the soldiers still faced the rebels caused him so much pain – and so much shame – he regained consciousness immediately and recognized Ser Doran Allyrion's sigil embroidered on the cloak he wore over his plate – a golden hand on gyronny red and black, mimicking the gesture of a man who stops his enemy – at least, with his head hanging down, he saw a golden wrist on a blur of red and black, as Allyrion hurried to find a maester for Jon and a quiet place for both of them. As they crossed the streets between the sept and the market square, he heard Allyrion giving orders to the loyalists and commanding them to protect their retreat.

They found shelter in a deserted tavern where Ser Doran shouted he would kill anyone who tried to move or to leave; there were only the owner and his two sons inside. They glared at them and cursed in an undertone but didn't resist. As Allyrion had given more orders before storming in the tavern, the maester who accompanied the army finally arrived then took care of Jon and of two other soldiers.

"You'll be turned around within a week, maybe two," he flatly announced once the bleeding stopped. "You need to rest, my lord."

Jon had never heard something more stupid: if he had survived his fight with Robert, he had to organize the retreat of his men. Thus, he gave orders to Ser Doran and the other soldiers who were there, told them to exit the city through the eastern gate, sent two men outside of the town to explain the situation to Lord Yronwood, who was resisting the Stark and Arryn hosts, and to deliver him more instructions.

Five hours later, Jon was lying at the back of a carriage stuck between the carts that once brought food to the army, protected by the rearguard and feeling every jolt. They had successfully retreated from Stoney Sept, if leaving the city without Robert's head in a basket was ever a success. Many men had died, that day, but the losses of the royal army could have been worse; under Yronwood's command, the men fighting outside of Stoney Sept wrought havoc in the North and Vale hosts.  _ But Allyrion died _ , he thought, wincing.  _ He saved my life, did his best so that we could retreat and one bastard rebel slit his throat as he tried to protect me again. _

He remembered the squinting eyes of Ser Doran, giving a strange and almost comic expression to his weathered face. The Dornish knight's corpse was heading to the capital as well, wrapped in his long cloak, in a cart bumping along somewhere behind Jon. He tried to remember House Allyrion's motto and the irony struck him when the words finally popped in his head:  _ No Foe May Pass _ .  _ Ser Doran was just applying this motto when he died and the treacherous dagger of a rebel rewarded his bravery. _

* * *

The apartments located in the Tower of the Hand didn't look more familiar to him when he came back than before chasing Robert.  _ So much the better, I guess, now that I have to pack. _

Aerys had dismissed him, stripped him of his lands and titles and exiled him. The king didn't want to hear him or anyone else about Stoney Sept and the retreat Jon had led despite his wounds; he only focused on the failure, on the fact that Robert was still alive and refused his counselors advice. When the king had announced his dismissal during the Small Council, Jon had met Varys distressed gaze.  _ Even the bloody Spider can't maneuver him.  _ As a token of magnanimity, Aerys allowed Jon's squire to help him pack, since he had not entirely recovered but the result was the same: he had to leave King's Landing before the end of the next day.

His squire was dancing around in the apartments of the Hand, asking him what to do with the candelabras or what clothes he wanted to take with him and Jon watched the boy, helpless, wondering where Rhaegar was. While answering evasively to his squire whose agitation grew by the minute, Jon became aware he wouldn't see Rhaegar before leaving the Red Keep. He felt both furious and doleful when an argument in the corridor made him turn his head. The guards were quarreling with someone who demanded to see him. Before he could reach the door, the intruder had already opened it and he saw Princess Elia coming in, her daughter on her heels. Leaning back against the wall and almost out of breath, she was the shadow of her former self, tired and unsteady on her feet; her olive skin was now white-yellow, with a waxen aspect, and strands of brown hair stuck to her damp temples. Jon caught a glimpse at the anxious lady-in-waiting who had guided her along the corridors and closed the door.

"You shouldn't be here," he said in a reproachful tone, deliberately forgetting salutation and gallantry.

_ After all, my dismissal means I won't have to play their games anymore. _

Her chest heaving, Elia didn't answer and let her eyes flutter about until she found a proper seat; she chose the old armchair where Jon loved to read the  _ History of the Rhoynish Wars _ with a cup of wine and she nearly collapsed in it.

"We need to talk," she told him, adopting the same straightforward tone.

He dismissed his squire and as the boy shut the door, he noticed Rhaenys was standing in front of him, smiling and confident. She held out to him a kitten, a tiny animal with a black and white fur.

"Is it for me? You would be the only member of House Targaryen to offer me something," he said bitterly. "King Aerys even refused to reward House Allyrion, after Ser Doran's death. The man saved my life. The king replied he didn't have to acknowledge his bravery for he saved a traitor."

Elia sighed deeply and he decided her sympathy was sincere.

"I knew Ser Doran since I was a child. He was a good man," she told him.

Vaguely disappointed by Jon's indifference, Rhaenys put down the kitten and tugged his top boots.

"Connig," the little girl called. "Connig."

"I tried to teach her the name of everyone living in the Red Keep," Elia commented in an apologetic tone, "but 'Lord Connington' seems too long for my daughter."

As Rhaenys opened her arms for him, he grabbed the little girl's chubby middle and took her in his arms. She squirmed with enthusiasm.

"Red hair, red hair, red hair," she intoned, smiling.

"No, Rhaenys," Elia said, "I told you-"

"It doesn't matter. We're beyond courtesies and titles, now."

Elia considered for a while the man who held her daughter and looked for a place to sit, because in his condition, even the weight of a two-year-old girl was too much for him. He finally closed the chest where his squire had put his belongings and sat down on it. Rhaenys' warmth was comforting as she rested on his lap.  _ I will never have children _ , he thought, and the realization almost hurt him.

"I didn't see him," he confessed, eager to break the silence.

"Neither did I," she replied, fighting back her tears.  _ No need to say who we are talking about. _

"He came back after the birth of our son," she added, "He said his name was Aegon and he left. Rhaegar neglects all those who love him, these days."

Her gaze was so insistent it infuriated Jon.  _ Oh, please... Don't act as if we were that similar. _ However, he knew she was right in that they shared the same sorrow.

"I wonder where is Lord Varys," Elia suddenly whispered, turning to the door.

"Did you tell Varys to come here?" he asked her in disbelief. "Well, I didn't expect to see him before leaving. The more the merrier."

As if he was meant to show up every time someone said his name, a faint knock at the door announced the eunuch's arrival. Smoothing his long turquoise robe, he stared at Jon who still held Rhaenys in his arms. Jon ignored him and lowered his eyes to see Rhaenys light brown hair and rounded cheeks; the little girl leaned back against his chest, unaware of his wounds. He winced but didn't move.  _ Her mother's a fool but I could get along well with this one. _

"My lord," Varys told him, "what happened to you is so unfair I can't say how sorry I am. Your dismissal is just the worst decision the King made..."

_ No: roasting Lord Rickard was his worst decision. Killing him spurred the rebels on. My dismissal is a non event. _

"What do you want from me?" he cut Varys off, exasperated. "How can I be useful now that the King banned me?"

This question seemed to galvanize the eunuch, who briefly smiled.

"You'll be our bridgehead in Essos. Our last resort should the royal army be defeated. Princess Elia's protector should she flee from Westeros."

"King Aerys won't let me go to Dorne," she explained, slowly shaking her head. "His Grace thinks Dorne could join the rebellion if I come back to Sunspear. Hostages: that's what we are, my children and myself."

He lowered his gaze again and met Rhaenys trusting eyes.

"I should steal your daughter, then, and take her to Essos. At least, she wouldn't be a hostage anymore."

He spoke in a mocking tone but once uttered, the suggestion didn't seem so foolish to him. However, Elia panicked and tried to push herself from the old armchair before giving up.

"My children are not going anywhere without me!" she hissed, adamant.

"Are you out of your mind, Connington?" Varys asked, going further. "If Princess Rhaenys leaves the Red Keep, my plan will never work!"

"Your plan?" Jon growled. "You wanted to convince Aerys to let her go and you lamentably failed!"

He delivered this truth with such a strength Rhaenys shivered and clutched his forearm.

"You shouldn't trust him, Elia," he warned her, a sarcastic smile appearing on his lips, "He's the man who whispered my name when the king wanted a new Hand. Look where that got me!"

"Why are you so hateful?" she muttered.

"Will you keep your promise and welcome Princess Elia and the children if need be?" Varys asked.

Jon sighed heavily and nodded.

"I will. But I persist in saying you should let the little girl come with me. I would take good care of her."

The eunuch shook his bald head vehemently, as if he was reasoning with a madman.

"It would destroy Princess Elia's chances... Do you want the King to send her to some dungeon? I didn't want to discuss such matters with you, but she could have died in childbirth! She needs to recover and then, she'll escape the Red Keep.  _ With _ the children."

Jon saw the eunuch and the princess nodding at the same time, like two children trying to reassure each other, despite the danger threatening them.  _ Bloody fools.  _ Varys stepped forward and planted himself in front of him, holding out a heavy purse.

"I will send you messages so that you know what is happening here. I wish you all the best, my lord."

"I'm not a lord anymore and I don't want your gold."

The Spider wouldn't give up though, and he insisted until Jon took the purse. Then, he tilted his head and Jon read it as a sign of impatience; Varys thought all had been said and it was time for him and Elia to go back to their apartments. Jon pushed himself from the chest, Rhaenys still in his arms.  _ Rhaegar has been gone for so long she could mistake any man for her father _ , he mused as the little girl rewarded him with a mischievous smile. Her weight nevertheless elicited a painful grunt when he tried to lift her so that her face was close to his; he stroke her brown curls, pinched her cheek and grudgingly let her go. When he stood up straight, Varys offered his arm to Elia who seemed ready to faint.

"Where's the cat?" she suddenly asked, frowning, and Varys, delighted by the distraction it provided, left her to look for the kitten throughout the untidy room.

"Here, Your Grace. He was hiding behind the curtains," Varys announced triumphantly and he placed the animal in Rhaenys arms. Elia had already forgotten the cat and turned to Jon.

"There are so many things I would like to say to you," she said softly. "I know you, I know your pride and the feeling of guilt oppressing you because you think you failed. In my eyes, you didn't fail. And I know I can trust you, despite..."

She stopped short of telling him more, embarrassed.

"Is there something you want me to tell my husband, when he comes back?" she added, blushing slightly.

Her solicitude, one of the many things he hated so much about her, didn't infuriate him for once.

"No," he answered flatly.  _ This is the end of everything I fought for and there's nothing to say. _

She urged her daughter to bid him goodbye and once again, the little girl mispronounced his name.

"'Jon' is fine," he told Rhaenys, squatting in front of her.

"Jon Red hair," the girl whispered with a gleeful expression, burying her nose in the kitten's fur.

Giving this nickname to Jon enchanted her, probably because it inevitably irked her mother. His wounded shoulder stung when he stood up; he contemplated Elia for a while, took in her bister complexion and her doe-eyed stare.

"Goodbye, Jon. We'll meet very soon, in a different place."

Leaning against the eunuch's arm, Elia gave him a sad smile, took her daughter's hand and left him in the shambles that was his room. He walked back to the chest where he held Rhaenys a moment earlier, sat on it and began to realize what exile meant.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had always loved storms and this one, turning the Narrow Sea in a chaos of waves and winds, tossing the carrack about, shaking its mast and shattering the sails, was his first real storm since he left his father's castle. Jon had seen storms in King's Landing, of course, but it was never the same when he watched them from the shelter the large balconies of the Red Keep provided. From his apartments, he could barely glimpse at the sea. _A storm without the sight of waves crashing against the shore or against a boat is not a real storm._  
>  No, he didn't get the opportunity to watch a storm since he left Griffin's Roost when he was mere child. The years he had spent in the shadow of his prince were like a long lull, a calmness that only ended with his dismissal and his exile. If he was as devout as he was during his childhood, he could believe the gods had chosen to remind him this truth by sending a storm that made the ship rock and creak. Thus, the storms he had watched from the tower of Griffin's Roost and this one marked the duration of his years spent by Rhaegar.

He had always loved storms.

As a child, back in Griffin's Roost, he used to climb in one of the towers to watch the waves crashing against the red stone cliffs.  _ Not the highest tower, the one that overhangs the bay. Diving from its balcony would kill anyone; jumping from there means a quick death on the rocks spattered by white-crested waves. _ He could stay all night long, listening to the howling wind and staring at the rough waters. There would be a ship, occasionally, rather a cog or a galley than another type of boat, desperately fighting to resist the elements, waiting for the lull. Sometimes, the ship would win. Sometimes not.  _ It's called the Shipbreaker Bay, after all. _

The Shipbreaker Bay had always fascinated him and since the day he had left Griffin's Roost to become a squire in King's Landing, he had missed the storms as much as one would miss a member of his family.  _ The same show starting over every time the wind rose, but I never got sated. _ He loved the wind disrupting the flight of the birds daring enough to fly on these nights and the rain lashing his face.

When the storm broke at daytime, it could be even better, with the greyish skies taking a dark blue color, grey slate or purple, almost as black as ink. He loved to watch the sky clouding over, taking the darkest hues, as the claps of thunder echoed in the bay; when he looked at the stormy sky, it changed by the minute, always surprising him with all the possible color range of greys and blues. Lightning came as a glorious hero, when he least expected it and sent shivers down his spine.

He had always loved storms and this one, turning the Narrow Sea in a chaos of waves and winds, tossing the carrack about, shaking its mast and shattering the sails, was his first real storm since he left his father's castle. Jon had seen storms in King's Landing, of course, but it was never the same when he watched them from the shelter the large balconies of the Red Keep provided. From his apartments, he could barely glimpse at the sea.  _ A storm without the sight of waves crashing against the shore or against a boat is not a real storm. _

No, he didn't get the opportunity to watch a storm since he left Griffin's Roost when he was mere child. The years he had spent in the shadow of his prince were like a long lull, a calmness that only ended with his dismissal and his exile. If he was as devout as he was during his childhood, he could believe the gods had chosen to remind him this truth by sending a storm that made the ship rock and creak. Thus, the storms he had watched from the tower of Griffin's Roost and this one marked the duration of his years spent by Rhaegar.

The panic striking a part of the crew and all the other passengers left Jon indifferent; they didn't understand, they were not able to catch the beauty of the storm. A cloud as black as night was right above the upper deck of the  _ Laughing Lady _ , right above his head, bringing a pouring rain. Jon's clothes and hair were already soaked by the previous rain shower and the waves spattering everything that was not sheltered in a cabin. He watched the storm with a feverish gaze, stared at the rough waters hungrily, as if finding again one of his childhood memories could soothe his pain and mend his broken heart.

* * *

Among the few passengers of the  _ Laughing Lady _ , he felt like an anomaly rather than a foreigner. There was not a single person he could talk to.  _ But do I really want to talk? _ One was a red priest, on his way to Pentos; two were tradesmen and the wine they sold offered him the opportunity of exchanging a couple of trite remarks about their journey. The last one was a Bravosi sellsword, and Jon didn't want to discuss with him either. His past built a wall between him and the passengers, as high as the wall existing between him and the people he would meet in Essos; he therefore stayed silent and paced the upper deck under the crew's curious gaze, until Pentos was in sight.

_ A different continent. A different life. Is it a life worth fighting for? _

In the Bay of Pentos, the waters were perfectly still and the carrack seemed to slide on the their iridescent surface. A thud and the sensation that the deck gave way under his feet announced they landed. When the captain shouted that they could come off the boat, he didn't react immediately and remained leaning on the rail. Coming off and setting foot upon this unknown land almost frightened him.  _ Because I don't know what I'm going to find. No, it's worse: I don't care about what I'm going to find. _

He sighed, went to his cabin, took his cloak and his purse before asking a ship's boy to carry the chest containing his belongings. Even that simple question,  _ 'Could you carry this chest?' _ sounded weird. He had always had someone to serve him, to take care of the most simple and boring tasks; now that he was no longer the Lord of Griffin's Roost, no longer the Hand of King Aerys, he didn't know if he could keep his old habits.

The ship's boy nevertheless followed him with the chest, puffing and panting, put it down on the cobbled pier and left him wordlessly. Dazzled by the pentoshi sun, Jon shielded his eyes with his hand. The wharves were crowded as the  _ Laughing Lady _ was not the only ship unloading; sailors, tradesmen and porters hurried themselves from the boats to the warehouses.

Jon decided he needed to quench his thirst before thinking of anything else; carrying his chest himself, he went to a tavern, took a room for the night to come and sat on a bench, alone with a jug of Pentoshi amber.  _ Might as well get used to the local wine. _

Inside the tavern, everything was different from Westeros; the building in itself was different, higher and lighter than what he knew, the maids looked more like slaves, with their bronze collars, the language had nothing to do with the Common Tongue. He noticed the customers used different languages, which was rather normal in a harbor like Pentos.

Keeping a habit he had gained a few years ago, when he occasionally ventured to Flea Bottom, he sat in a corner, his back to the wall. On his left, three sailors had a heated discussion; two of them, with their olive skin and their use of bastard Valyrian, were most likely Pentoshi. The third one, a slim youth hiding his freckled face behind dull blond hair, made them repeat everything they said. Jon finally understood the third sailor was from Westeros; his Pentoshi friends kept him informed about his homeland. Despite his shortcomings in high Valyrian and his lack of practice since the age of five-and-ten, Jon noticed they repeated the valyrian word for 'battle' and heard the name 'Rhaegar'. Hesitating, he emptied his cup, the Pentoshi wine leaving a taste of plums and sour blackberries on his tongue.

"Are you from Westeros?" he shouted across to the blond sailor.

The man turned slightly to him and a smile crept over his freckled face.

"You're Westerosi too?" the sailor exclaimed, without concealing his enthusiasm. "'Thought I couldn't find someone speaking the Common Tongue in this damn place!"

"Where are you from?"

"White Harbor, m'lord."

_ A bloody Northerner. _ The sailor left the Pentoshi men and planted himself in front of him. Jon gestured to the seat across him and the man sat instantly. He noticed they were of an age.

"I'm not a lord." His tone was adamant enough to prevent any further question.  _ Not anymore. _

The sailor frowned, but soon regained his cheerful smile.

"You like this city?" he asked Jon.

"I don't know yet, I just landed. I was on the  _ Laughing Lady _ , but the journey was long enough to make me wonder about what's going on in Westeros."

"My friends are both sailors on the  _ White Star _ and they arrived at the same time, though their ship is quicker than yours and didn't stop over. Heard your boat faced a big storm? It didn't help, since-"

"Do they have fresh news from the Seven Kingdoms?" Jon said, too impatient not to cut off the sailor.

"They do. Before they set sail, they heard about the rebellion. There was a battle at the Green Fork of the Trident."

"Who won?"

The sailor leaned forward, as if he was confessing a secret.

"Seven Hells, I still don't believe it, but Mello says it's true and Gods know, he speaks the Common Tongue quite well..."

"What happened?" Jon asked, loosing his temper.

At that moment, the sailor's gaze changed. "Prince Rhaegar commanded the royal army and he faced Robert," he said flatly. "And Robert killed Rhaegar."

Jon didn't move, nor reply anything. His body felt suddenly numb and he didn't protest when the sailor asked if he could have some of his Pentoshi amber. He saw the man pouring wine and drinking in one gulp, then getting on his feet and leaving him. He couldn't say for how long he stayed like this, perfectly still on his bench, before going upstairs and collapsing on his bed.

Lying flat on the sagging mattress, he stared at the ceiling and tried to give meaning to the news. When Elia had left his apartments after his dismissal, he had understood he would never meet Rhaegar again. The realization had been terribly painful, but he had had the whole crossing to accept this idea. He could still harbor the hope that, one day, after Aerys' death, Rhaegar would rule the Seven Kingdoms and ask for him. Rhaegar was not good at making people happy – Elia's unfathomable sadness and his own broken heart evidenced Rhaegar's failure with the ones who loved him – but he was loyal. The prince wouldn't forget Jon had chosen to stay and fight when he had offered him to go back to Griffin's Roost.

Now that Rhaegar was dead, the faintest hopes had disappeared. As long as he was alive, his heart contained a complete range of emotions, from anger to jealousy, from melancholy to yearning; Rhaegar wasn't by his side, but he was  _ somewhere _ . His death left a void, huge and cold. There was nothing to fill the deep hole he felt in his chest.  _ Maybe the news are false, maybe it's some gossip the rebels repeat to undermine Aerys' power. _ Denial tempted Jon for a while, but he knew the sailor was right.

Images churned in his dizzy head: Rhaegar's harp and his fleet-fingered playing, Rhaegar's expressions when they practiced fencing, his habits and a substantial amount of details. The precise color of his hair, the shape of his hands, the way the muscles of his arm jutted out when he held his sword; all these trifles people generally ignored or overlooked were carved in his memory.

However, one memory floated on the ocean of the tiny details about Rhaegar; one moment, fragile and fleeting, that would never sink in the depths of oblivion. Whatever storms and gales life had in store for Jon, no wave would engulf that instant.

They were six-and-ten, no more, and for some reason, Arthur Dayne wasn't there; among the lordlings gravitating towards Rhaegar, Jon was the only worthy opponent. They had spent the day training and fighting. Rhaegar's other companions had left the Red Keep's armory, whether they got tired or they were bored. On the bare walls, ancient weapons were the only ornament; there was room enough for two dozen young men practicing sword fight.

As they were alone and fighting once more, Rhaegar forced him to go backwards across the room, just for fun, then let him counter his blows so they set off back the way they had come. After going backward and forward several times, they were both exhausted but it was Jon who yielded first and fell down. He remembered the cold floor below him, the specks of dust under his clammy hands. Putting his sword aside and still towering above him, Rhaegar graciously offered his hand; Jon grabbed his wrist with a mischievous smile and made him fall. When Rhaegar collapsed on him, they both burst out laughing.

A sort of haziness wrapped up what followed; in high spirits, they couldn't get on their feet, so they stayed there for a while, laughing, Rhaegar half protesting about Jon's trick. In the end, the prince shifted and lay down beside him, repeating how worn out he was. A few chuckles, coming from one or the other interrupted the silence every so often and Jon, because he felt so good that day and above all because he seldom was alone with Rhaegar, decided it would be now or never.

Leaning on his elbow and turning to Rhaegar, he looked at him, memorizing his facial features as they were that evening.

"What?" the prince asked, blowing a strand of blond hair out of his face.

Jon didn't answer, leaned over him and kissed his lips. It was not some deep kiss, given by a feisty young man who couldn't restrain his loving surge. His lips met Rhaegar's and gently pressed them before he pulled away. It didn't last long, a heartbeat at the most.

Rhaegar neither protested nor responded to that kiss; he stayed perfectly still on the floor, and Jon wondered long after about the prince's stolidity. At some point, he decided that Rhaegar was so conscious of his beauty, of the worship he provoked, he accepted all the tributes paid to him, whether they were compliments or kisses, whether they come from men or women. It was his fate, or perhaps his curse: he could be the Prince Who Was Promised, or at least, he would father him. That idea turned him into a different person, apart from the rest: he aroused so much expectations he could only receive tokens of love.

Sometimes, it seemed to Jon that there was a never-ending row of beggars in front of the prince; some praised his qualities, others idolized him or just demanded his attention and Jon was among them.  _ A beggar among so many others. Elia is a fool if she believes she's different from the rest; she's just another mendicant and Rhaegar can't – or couldn't – give her what she's asking for. Is the Stark girl different from us? Who knows? He waged war for her, after all. _

Jon didn't need to meet Rhaegar's eyes to know he had lost his prince when his lips brushed his; it was over. Things would never be the same between them. After the armory incident, there was a distance, a coldness in the way the prince behaved and for months, Rhaegar always managed not to be completely alone with him.

Jon remembered how jealousy tormented him the day Rhaegar married Elia of Dorne.  _ Only a Targaryen would be worthy of him. And that frail brown-haired girl, with her simpering airs... _ Elia erupted with joy after the ceremony, and her happiness, coming from a girl everyone extolled for her good manners, looked like an indelicacy. Jon was so jealous he focused on her and on her radiant smile instead of noticing Rhaegar was far from exulting with her. He seemed pleased, of course, but not more pleased than he was when people expressed their admiration for him. Jon should have discerned the prince's restraint, his polite reserve.  _ Elia should have seen it too. We were both fools. We should have known. I suppose she was more stupid than I was, for I always knew he would never belong to me. I never deluded myself. Elia lost everything, now. And the rebels are coming for her. For her, and for the children. _


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Lord Varys' friends are always welcome in my house!" Mopatis bellowed, opening his arms in a theatrical way.  
> Jon thought it was useful to remind him he didn't come for trivial matters and the situation in Westeros had nothing to do with an amiable farce.  
> "I guess a well-informed man like you heard the news," he said rather coldly.  
> The man's wide smile disappeared from his round face and he gestured to a bench seat invaded by an army of silken cushions. Jon sat and Mopatis settled down on the armchair across him.  
> "Of course, I've heard of Prince Rhaegar's tragic death," he answered softly.  
>  _Is it his foreign accent or does he feign compassion? I'm not sure I like his voice._

Varys had advised him to join the Golden Company – the only company of sellswords worthy of Jon, according to the eunuch – and so he did.

After learning Rhaegar's death, he had drunk himself into stupors and stayed in the cramped room of the tavern. From the rotten window frame, he heard the distant sound of the harbor; though he had shuttered his room, he could tell the sun was coming up and down thanks to the shades that lengthened and shortened on the dusty wooden floor. That was how he realized he had spent three whole days in the tavern.

Jon wouldn't come back to Westeros, most likely, nor talk to his prince again, nor see the lands he had inherited. He toyed with the idea of dying there – his dagger was sharp enough for that purpose – but suicide was never an option for the Conningtons. _I'm still a member of House Connington, after all, even if my dear cousin Ronald now rules my father's lands. For lack of anything better, I can still cling to the customs and values I respected when I was a child._ Dying sword in hand was right though, and the numerous skirmishes and battles the Golden Company fought every year offered him the possibility of a death fitting his own moral code.

On the morning of the fourth day, he rose from his bed, ordered a bath, got dressed and left the tavern. He bought a mare – the old animal had known better days, but he didn't want to waste all his gold – and asked the first Pentoshi he saw where lived the man whose name Varys had written on a scroll of paper.

 _Illyrio Mopatis._ The foreign name rolled thickly off his tongue when he read it aloud. The man he had talked to opened wide eyes when he heard Mopatis' name and almost bowed in front of Jon, quitting the condescending attitude he had a few heartbeats before, when he had seen a foreigner mounted on a weary horse. With a profusion of gestures, the Pentoshi explained him he would find Illyrio Mopatis' house not very far from the palace of the Prince and Jon led his mare through the labyrinthine streets of Pentos until he asked another man who finally pointed out a stately porch that stood out against a creamy yellow high wall.

The old servant who opened the heavy door wore a bronze collar, like the maids he had seen in the tavern and like a great deal of people walking in the streets; as soon as he heard Jon stammering in High Valyrian, he answered in the Common Tongue as if welcoming Westerosi visitors was his everyday routine.

The old man led him through the gardens and inside a mansion that revealed how wealthy his host was: marble floors felt cool under his boots, contrasting with the oppressive sun outside, and the murmuring waters of several fountains accentuated the impression of coolness. In the large room where the old servant left Jon, sunbeams played on the silken wall hangings and on the mahogany furniture. After a few minutes enjoying the room where Illyrio Mopatis met his guests, Jon decided the man was a Pentoshi version of Lord Varys: a person who had connections everywhere, eager to show his wealth and refined tastes.

He hardly knew anything about Illyrio Mopatis; at the most he did remember he was a former sellsword who had married the Prince's cousin. He was therefore a respectable man with a less than humble ancestry, like most of the sellswords born in Essos. As a matter of fact, when Mopatis came in and welcomed him with a broad grin, Jon felt both the social success and the difficult childhood; the buxom figure proved he didn't need to rent his sword anymore but the way he mindlessly touched the golden rings circling his plump fingers in a self-reassuring gesture revealed his fear of losing everything he had worked for.

"Lord Varys' friends are always welcome in my house!" Mopatis bellowed, opening his arms in a theatrical way.

Jon thought it was useful to remind him he didn't come for trivial matters and the situation in Westeros had nothing to do with an amiable farce.

"I guess a well-informed man like you heard the news," he said rather coldly.

The man's wide smile disappeared from his round face and he gestured to a bench seat invaded by an army of silken cushions. Jon sat and Mopatis settled down on the armchair across him.

"Of course, I've heard of Prince Rhaegar's tragic death." 

_Is it his foreign accent or does he feign compassion? I'm not sure I like his voice._

"Lord Varys probably told you I would give you the latest news from Westeros as well as we would discuss our plans."

 _Our plans? What in Seven Hells is he talking about?_ Mopatis must have noticed Jon's furrowed brow for he explained immediately what he meant.

"As an old friend of Varys, I offered him my help. I am ready to welcome here any member of the Targaryen family, lest their lives were in danger."

"Well, their lives are in danger. The Battle of the Trident was supposed to crush the rebels before they could turn to King's Landing. Now the road is open-"

"Do you think I ignore this threat? Dear Jon – may I call you Jon? – I heard a lot about you, about your bravery, about your skills... about your hotheaded behavior as well. You made miracles on the battlefield, despite your king's lack of gratitude, but you're so ingenuous when it comes to politics! Do you know for how long Lord Varys tried to sway your king's decision about Princess Elia?"

He touched his receding hairline and ran his fingers through the blond strands covering the crown of his head; this nervous gesture made Jon wonder what Mopatis didn't tell him.

"Why doesn't the bloody Spider organize their flight from the Red Keep?" he almost shouted. "Aerys won't change his mind! There's no way out for Elia and the children, except this one: escape. Regardless of the cost."

The chuckle Illyrio Mopatis failed to repress spurred his guest's anger and Jon crossed his arms on his chest, a defiant look in his eyes.

"I"m glad Princess Elia eventually found a champion to defend herself," Mopatis taunted him.

"I don't care about Elia. I just want to keep a promise."

Staying still on the cushions and not throwing himself on the fat man sitting across him required more and more efforts; Jon shifted his long legs and locked eyes with his host.

"They don't have time, I'm afraid. Send a message to Varys and tell him to organize their escape without delay. He can disguise them, have some maid take the place of Elia, whatever... I don't care. Rhaegar's children must be saved. For the sake of the Targaryen dynasty."

Mopatis ensconced himself in his armchair and stared at Jon's infuriated face for a while, with the raised eyebrow of a man who gauges his enemy. Jon leaned forward.

"Varys wants me to protect Elia and the children: fine. All he has to do is help them sneak out of the Red Keep; let me sail back to King's Landing and I'll collect them-"

"Do you ignore the meaning of banishment?" Mopatis asked him, as his rings collided with the arm rests in an impatient gesture. "As soon as you land on Westeros, you'll be a dead man!"

"Do you really think death scares me?" Jon retorted with a sarcastic half-smile.

This last remark silenced his host for a while: Mopatis touched his forked beard mindlessly before finding the proper answer.

"You'll keep your promise, Jon, and you'll help them. But right now, let Lord Varys and myself handle this. Your skills will be useful sooner or later. For the time being, you'll keep up the appearances of the jaded exiled lord and the Golden Company will provide you the cover you need. I have no doubt you'll dupe your audience with this world-weary expression I read on your face."

This flat refusal incensed Jon who nevertheless kept quiet until he took his leave.

* * *

Finding the Golden Company was not difficult, in a way. He exited Pentos and crossed the Sunrise Gate leading to the Flatlands where the sellswords' encampment was located. From that moment on he rode east, for lack of any other indication. His mare's flanks disappeared in the waist-high grass and he believed he was lost when half a dozen horsemen surrounded him. Their impressive outfits mesmerized Jon. Two of them bore inlaid armors; the one who seemed to be their leader had a incredible sword whose handle was set with gemstones; all of them wore silken clothes and heavy torcs of gold. Pulling the reins of his restless mare, Jon remembered the tales about the Golden Company and realized that they had got hold on him before he could find them.

They probably thought of stripping him from the belongings he kept in two saddle bags bought at the same time as the mare; Jon could tell it by their curious looks and their leader's eyes appraising the weight of the leather bags lying on his horse's croup. He told them who he was, asked to talk to their commander; the men laughed and nevertheless led him to their encampment.

A sea of tents bathing in the late afternoon sun welcomed him as he arrived with horsemen on both sides. The Golden Company forces were not larger than those he had commanded in the Riverlands. Ten thousand men, the man with a jeweled sword said: knights, squires, archers. _An organization based on Westerosi hosts: nothing that will break my habits. And most of the members, even among the archers are Westerosi, as well. Still... can I stay and fight with them? Is this what I want?_ Jon knew he didn't have many options left, now that he was an exile.

The jeweled sword dismounted and told him to do so. A boy, perhaps a recruit, took the reins of their horses as they walked toward one of the strangest things Jon had ever seen; in front of a large tent of cloth-of-gold, there were pikes, hammered in the hard soil like standard poles. On top of each pike, something glimmered under the fading sun. _Seven save us… The are skulls,_ he realized. Gilded skulls hanged from the top of the pikes; as there were at least three or four skulls tied to each pole, they made an uncanny sound with the slightest breeze, something between the thump of bones knocking together and a dainty clang.

"Our late commanders' skulls," the jeweled sword informed Jon, with an amused smile contrasting with his gruff voice. "Ever heard of Maelys Blackfyre's skull?"

In Westeros, people whispered Maelys had killed his twin in the womb and therefore never omitted to call him 'the Monstrous' whenever they mentioned his prowess as a captain-general of the Golden Company. The second head – his dead twin's head – sprouting from his neck was horrifying enough to be an asset on the battlefield. The jewelled sword's question implied the Golden Company had found a way to make Maelys still horrifying after his death, probably by dipping the twin's head in gold and keeping it alongside the commander's skull.

"So you need those kind of trinkets to frighten your enemies?" Jon casually asked the sellsword, to show just how unimpressed he was.

The jeweled sword burst out laughing. _He's no sucker_ , Jon mused.

"A man according to my heart!" the sellsword finally replied. "Come, our Captain-General will meet you."

He first entered the tent, leaving Jon alone, enough time to admire the gilded skulls of the nearest pike so far as one can admire skulls, then let him in.

The display of material wealth inside the commander's tent couldn't be ignored, just like on the sellswords' outfits: the cloth-of-gold that sheltered the leader of the Golden Company mirrored the heavy chest of ebony, the silver candelabras and the unwashed silver-gilt dishes someone had put on the thick rug as if it was some ordinary wooden bowls.

In the half-light, Jon didn't see anyone at first, then a tall figure left the darkest corner of the tent and paced toward him. The man's face was not handsome by any standards: he was jug-eared and neither his crooked jaw nor his big nose added elegance to his very common face. He made up on the fine clothes he wore: a silken doublet and, despite the heat, velvet breeches. Like his men, his hands and neck were heavy with golden ornaments. Jon thought he looked like a beggar with his boiled leather and his red stubble.

"This is Jon Connington," the jewelled sword said a bit stiffly to his commander, "Lord of Griffin's Roost, former Hand of King Aerys."

"I knew who he is," the commander retorted, staring at Jon.

"Our Captain-General, Myles Toyne," the sellsword went on.

"My enemies call me 'Blackheart'," Toyne precised, "and I go by the same name, here."

The sellsword understood his presence wasn't necessary anymore and he left. The last sun rays came in by the opening of the tent and shone on the commander's rings.

"Illyrio Mopatis says you would be a fine recruit for the Golden Company," Myles Toyne began. "With your experience during Robert's Rebellion. _'One of the best warriors of Westeros,'_ according to Lord Varys' words."

He turned around and lowered himself to take a scroll inside the ebony chest and held it out. _Bloody Spider: whoever I talk to, they always have had a conversation with Varys before._ Myles Toyne must have noticed Jon's pout, for he asked if he disagreed with the eunuch.

"Hire me as a sellsword and you'll see," Jon retorted in a defiant tone.

Toyne chuckled and his jaw seemed even more crooked.

"As you wish. This is the shortest discussion I ever had with a recruit," he finally said.

Assuming they were done, Jon showed a clean pair of heels, but the Captain-General's hoarse voice stopped him mid-stride.

"We are all outlaws, here," he said. "Either exiles or exiles' descendants."

He had spoken matter-of-factly, yet Jon took his words as an attempt to comfort him, in the rough, uncouth style of the Golden Company's commander. Exiting the golden tent, he swept the encampment until he found a bunch of men starting a campfire; from now on, his life would be there, on this foreign land, with these men, fighting for rich cities or wealthy people instead of defending a king who had dismissed him. How he would keep his promise now that he was a sellsword, he didn't know, but he felt in his guts that as long as Rhaegar's children were alive, he’d feel useful.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fat Pentoshi pushed himself from his armchair and smiled, his mask of apparent self-confidence cracking when he met Jon's narrowed eyes.  
>  _No. Don't tell me the Spider failed again. It can't be true. ___There was a long silence, as Mopatis gestured to the bench seat across him and faced Jon's curt refusal. Mopatis nevertheless sat down in his armchair and sighed.  
>  "Tell me what happened," Jon asked, stressing every syllable and grasping the back of the bench with both hands until his knuckles went white.  
> He was aware all this looked like he was threatening his host, regardless of the laws of hospitality. Mopatis hesitated, mouth agape for a few heartbeats, but when he would recall their meeting later, Jon would admit to himself the Pentoshi took him seriously enough to begin with what seemed the only good news.  
> "Aegon is alive," Mopatis finally announced.  
> It means Elia and Rhaenys are dead. __His knees gave out suddenly and he didn't protest when his host reiterated his gesture to the bench seat. Settling himself on the silken cushions, Jon tried to process Mopatis' words. _Elia is nothing to me. I never liked her, I despise her. But Rhaenys... ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More news about the progress of Robert's Rebellion and more questions about Varys' plan for Jon in this chapter...

Sleep shunned him; he spent his nights tossing and turning on his pallet, under the thick fabric of the tent he shared with two young sellswords. Not that his companions were noisy – they were young recruits, and they barely snored – but his mind simply refused to yield and behind his closed eyelids images of Westeros churned over and over.

At the end of the night, when the moon slowly retreated from the sky, he finally drifted in and out of sleep, drowsing then waking up with the slightest noise. Sometimes, he dreamed and though he couldn't remember anything afterward, he knew it was a bad dream for he always woke up with a start, bathed in sweat and panting.

After a fortnight, his inability to find sleep remained a mystery; he felt awfully tired during daytime yet he couldn't rest whenever he had a chance. He sought solace in training and being busy with the usual duties of an encampment, but everything turned out to a chore. _Is it Rhaegar's death?_ In this case, why had he slept so well on his first nights there, with the Golden Company?

He still couldn't explain his sleeplessness the day Myles Toyne asked for him; he walked to the shining tent surrounded by golden skulls hanging from the pikes and ducked his head to came in. Settled on a folding seat, the Captain-general didn't even beckon him to sit down and Jon guessed their conversation would be short.

"Seems like Illyrio Mopatis wants to talk to you, Connington," Toyne rasped. "Take your mount and go to his mansion. Come back before sunset, though. I allow you this little trip to Pentos because I have known Mopatis for a long time and I owe him one, but I'm not indebted to you. And I can't let my men come and go for any reason. Got it?"

Jon nodded silently and felt a jolt of energy: if Mopatis wanted to talk to him, he might need his service. _After all, the Spider may have whisked Elia and the children away. Are they hiding somewhere in Westeros or are they already here?_ The idea of seeing Elia again was definitely not tempting, and he foresaw difficulties of all sorts – Mopatis would give him stupid instructions, the princess would be sick and frail as ever and he had never been traveling with children – but he could keep his promise. He could feel useful again.

His horse's gait seemed incredibly slow that day, as he crossed the grassy plains, staring at the high walls of Pentos. He regretted insomnia had left him so tired; at the same time, he knew Elia's incessant chatter would wore him out and maybe it was the way he would finally sleep. The idea made him chuckle and he let his mount feel his spurs; it was still early in the afternoon, but if he had to go back to the encampment, he'd better not waste time.

Once in Pentos, he rode through the same dusty streets where servants wearing heavy bronze collars vainly sought shade. He dismounted in front of the creamy yellow high wall and knocked at the porch. The same old man who had welcomed him the first time appeared in the half-open door then let him in; Jon found the gardens and the mansion unchanged since his first visit, except that the place had not the same effect on his mind. He felt serene as he came in the large room with small fountains, expecting to wait for his host a good while before seeing him and froze when he saw Illyrio Mopatis already there.

The fat Pentoshi pushed himself from his armchair and smiled, his mask of apparent self-confidence cracking when he met Jon's narrowed eyes.

_No. Don't tell me the Spider failed again._ _It can't be true._ There was a long silence, as Mopatis gestured to the bench seat across him and faced Jon's curt refusal. Mopatis nevertheless sat down in his armchair and sighed.

"Tell me what happened," Jon asked, stressing every syllable and grasping the back of the bench with both hands until his knuckles went white.

He was aware all this looked like he was threatening his host, regardless of the laws of hospitality. Mopatis hesitated, mouth agape for a few heartbeats, but when he would recall their meeting later, Jon would admit to himself the Pentoshi took him seriously enough to begin with what seemed the only good news.

"Aegon is alive," Mopatis finally announced.

_It means Elia and Rhaenys are dead._ His knees gave out suddenly and he didn't protest when his host reiterated his gesture to the bench seat. Settling himself on the silken cushions, Jon tried to process Mopatis' words. _Elia is nothing to me. I never liked her, I despise her. But Rhaenys..._

"I know it's a hard blow for us all and a terrible defeat for the Targ-" Mopatis said with his smoothest tone.

"A terrible defeat?" Jon roared. "You call that a terrible defeat? She's dead. She was so young..."

"Princess Elia was such a lovely person, no doubt that-"

"I don't give a damn about Elia!" he shouted. "I would have kept my promise to her, but I never liked her, I never trusted her. I'm talking about Rhaenys."

Mopatis gave him a blank stare. _He doesn't know the little girl's name_ , Jon realized. He ran his fingers through his red beard, trying to regain his composure and locked eyes with the fat man.

"What happened?" he managed to ask, more courteously that time.

"It seems that King Aerys followed Rhaegar's advice and asked Tywin Lannister's help after the Trident," Mopatis began, his voice revealing weariness. "The Lannisters agreed on defending King's Landing again the rebels. Lord Varys was nevertheless anxious and he settled on switching Aegon with another baby."

Jon fidgeted, ready to cut him off, but Mopatis raised his hand in a soothing gesture.

"Jon, please, don't interrupt me. Varys advised Aerys not to open the gates for the Lannister host, because he didn't trust Lord Tywin, but the Grand Maester, this... Pycelle, he reassured the king and... he set the cat among the pigeons. They sacked the whole city, Jon."

Silence descended upon the room and for a while, they only heard the weeping waters of the fountains.

"Tywin Lannister chose the winning side, but he needed something to offer Lord Baratheon," the fat man went on.

Mopatis' last words incensed his guest. "Elia and the children," he said with a bitter smile.

"The king was murdered by Lord Tywin's son, Ser Jaime. I suppose you know him. Two Lannister knights were sent to break in the Red Keep during the sack and they killed Princess Elia and her children."

"Who are they? The Lannister knights?" he asked.

His own detached tone surprised Jon, and his host, still expecting a fit of anger, raised a puzzled eyebrow.

"A man named Gregor Clegane... dishonored... and murdered the princess. He killed her so-called son, as well."

Jon's nervous chuckle startled Mopatis who shifted slightly.

"Isn't it ironic? Rhaegar himself dubbed the young Clegane a few months ago. Did he kill Rhaenys?"

"I don't think so. Lord Varys mentioned a Ser Amory Lorch."

_Give me a boat and I'll go back to Westeros, find this Amory Lorch and kill him. I'll disarm him and let my blade dig in his abdomen, so that I can watch him die slowly._ He doubted Amory Lorch's death could give him solace and well knew the knight's death wouldn't bring back the trusting little girl who mispronounced his name. _But I'll avenge her._

All of a sudden, he remembered Varys' plan of switching Aegon with another baby boy and he directed his resentment on Mopatis. Sacrificing another child instead of Rhaegar's daughter might be cruel, but if it was the only way to save Rhaenys, he would have gotten his own hands dirty.

"Why didn't the bloody Spider find a low-born girl and disguise her with Rhaenys' dresses?" he growled.

The fat man didn't answer immediately, weighing his words.

"Lord Varys thought about using the same subterfuge for both children, but it's easy to replace a swaddled baby by another swaddled baby," he offered. "Instructing a little girl so that she played the role of Princess Rhaenys was much more difficult; anybody could find out-"

"Save your breath. There's another reason, right?"

Jon wasn't even surprised. Ill-at-ease, Mopatis played with his golden rings.

"Try to convince a mother to let her child go, Connington, and you'll understand. The prospect of putting her son in the care of strangers terrified Princess Elia. She kept repeating she wanted her daughter with her."

"Crazy woman, she doomed her own daughter!" he hissed.

Jon couldn't tell what overwhelmed him; there were no words to express the anger seething inside him, a rage aiming alternatively at the Lannister knights, at Elia, at Varys. There were no words either to describe what he felt for Rhaenys; she wasn't his kin, he barely knew her, had held her once a day. The little girl missed her father and that was all. Yet she had touched him in an unexplainable way and she had aroused emotions he didn't know he possessed.

"Why did he save Aegon instead of her?" he asked, doing his best not to show his fury.

Even if Jon knew the answer, he needed to hear it from Mopatis' mouth. The fat man swallowed hard, aware his words wouldn't soothe his guest's nerves.

"It was the right thing to do. Being Prince Rhaegar's rightful heir gives Aegon all chances to unite the forces still faithful to the Targaryens when the time comes. The loyalists will follow a young man without a second thought. No offense, Jon, but Westerosi people are rather conservative and they always chose men to lead them. I'm not sure they would have followed a girl."

He jumped on his feet and leaned toward Mopatis, a mad look in his eyes.

"You and Varys have this little girl's blood on your hands! Elia should have known, she should have sensed the danger, but she was a foolish woman. Varys... The eunuch could have saved Rhaenys and he didn't! While you'll lie down on your feather bed, hiding your paunch under silken sheets, you'll remember her name and how you refused to help her, causing her death!"

Out of breath, he felt his cheeks burning under Mopatis' cold stare. The display of anger and frustration somewhat repelled the fat man but Jon didn't care about the Pentoshi's contempt.

"I could have saved her," Jon added, forgetting his earlier rage and softening his voice. "I told Elia I could take Rhaenys with me, but she refused. I should have insisted. I should have done it, unbeknownst to Elia." His voice broke. "I would have taken good care of her and she would be alive."

Once he went silent, Mopatis scowled at him.

"I thought you were a warrior, Jon, but you're getting sentimental."

It felt like a slap in his face, and if Mopatis meant to awaken him with this cutting remark, he exceeded his expectations.

"You and Varys want me to crush our enemies so that we can restore the Targaryen dynasty? Fine. I'll crush them. I'll kill the Lannisters and their knights one by one. I'll find this Amory Lorch, open his belly and strangle him with his bowels. I'll burn his keep and destroy every damn trace of his existence. And if you want, I'll chase this beast of Gregor Clegane, cut his manhood and stuff his throat with it. Varys would shiver at that thought. You call that sentimental?"

Jon vaguely knew his chest was heaving while anger contorted his face. The Pentoshi's expression gradually softened and he regained the mask of false empathy that irritated Jon.

"You had more than your share of hardships, lately," he said. "Since your exile and Prince Rhaegar's death..."

"I'm not interested in your feigned compassion, Mopatis. You're wasting your time. What do you want from me?"

No matter how adamant and dry his tone seemed to the Pentoshi, he still struggled to regain his composure as he sat down on the bench seat, putting aside the stupid cushions.

"Aegon is still in King's Landing, hidden somewhere," Mopatis explained. "I wanted you to know about the Sack and I wanted to ask you if you're still determined to keep your promise. Elia's murder changed our plans."

_How? Don't tell me you and the Spider didn't consider that Elia could die. You already knew it could happen._

"Aegon will soon cross the sea and he'll stay here, in Pentos, with a wet-nurse. However, he's Rhaegar's heir and someday he'll claim his rights. He'll need someone to protect him and to teach him everything a prince should know about Westeros, about warfare, about the Faith of the Seven. You'll be that man, Jon."

The large room went silent again as Jon pondered on Mopatis' words.

"I'm a sellsword now," he stated flatly.

His new status seemed conflicting with the prospect of raising a child, even a child who would lead men to a battlefield someday.

"Yes, you are," Mopatis retorted. "And you'll stay in the Golden Company for some time. In a few years, Lord Jon Connington will die very conveniently but you will rise as a different man, a father, shielding his son."

The child Mopatis offered him to protect was not the one he cared for and the future he envisioned for Jon was dramatically different from what he expected; he would brood over it for days. _They knew it_ , he suddenly realized. _Varys chose me on purpose, because he wanted me to raise Aegon._ He felt dizzy, wondering _when_ the eunuch had chosen him, if he had already settled on Jon the day he whispered his name in the king's ear. _But he couldn't know I would lose at Stoney Sept, he couldn't know I'll be sent in exile... or could he?_ Jon felt at a loss; he nonetheless crossed his legs in a casual way and looked at the fat man.

"Is that all?" he asked, keeping up the appearances of the arrogant exiled lord. "I assume our little conversation is over. If you will excuse me."

He stood up and left a dumbfounded Mopatis; as he walked away, he heard him mumbling something about ill-mannered Westerosi lords.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter before the epilogue. Hope you'll enjoy what's next!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Exile is an education, Connington. Not the kind of education you yearn for, of course, but it will give you what you need to get back to Westeros, someday."

_The elephants should be an asset, not a burden._

The Tyroshi forces the Golden Company fought were a rather strange association between sellswords and the small army the city possessed. They had three dozens of turreted elephants; on the animals' tusks, the Tyroshi had put sharp points of brass. The red metal glimmered in the sun and threatened to impale anyone who was in their way. The loud trumpeting of elephants could have startled any soldier. The members of the Golden Company were not ordinary men, though.

As soon as their scouts had spotted the Tyroshi with their elephantry, Myles Toyne had asked Jon to prepare the impending battle and to take charge of the counterattack. The fact that Jon had seen elephants only once, in the menagerie of King's Landing, didn't bother the captain-general. _If he wants me to prove myself, I'll do it without ever asking a question._ Thus, Jon had tried to remember what he had read years ago in _The Life of the Triarch Belicho_. He knew the famous triarch of Volantis had once fought elephants, but the main difficulty was to recall how he had overpowered them. The Golden Company had been hired by Myr in the perpetual war for the Disputed Lands; a fair amount of gold was at stake and the Company couldn't afford a defeat.

Jon had spent the two days before the battle examining closely the resources of the Golden Company, thinking about traps for elephants and other devices. He soon forgot about traps – digging holes big enough to make the elephants fall in would be time-consuming and the success seemed uncertain – and turned to the lancers. If they closed ranks and managed to hurt the animals with their spears, they could face the Tyroshi. Jon therefore chose to stay with the lancers, even if the cavalry was far more respected, even in Essos, and commanded the foot soldiers Myles Toyne had positioned in front of the elephantry. What was about to happen would seal Jon's fate and make him either a remarkable officer or the embarrassment of the sellswords' company.

He sighed deeply, bathed in sweat under the gilded armor that was the officers' uniform. His horse had sensed his nervousness and whinnied from time to time, while the lancers readied to charge. In front of them, the gigantic beasts seemed determined to run over them: the massive figures merged with the mountain, their ornamented tusks being the only splotch of color in the greyish rows of the elephantry. The horn broke the heavy silence between the two armies and the rocky landscape of the Disputed Lands was soon filled with a deafening clamor.

While the cavalry of the Golden Company charged, the three dozens of elephants trumpeted again, more loudly this time and they rushed forward, the ground shaking under their footsteps and a dust cloud wrapping the monstrous animals.

"Don't move!" Jon shouted to the lancers. "Let them come!"

The lancers of the Golden Company were not like the brave, loyal, yet inexperienced troops he had under his command during the War of the Usurper; the Westerosi foot soldiers were often peasants or fishers recruited only weeks before. Elephants would have terrified them, while the mercenary lancers had seen many fights and therefore closed ranks.

Despite the furious charge of the elephants and the constant shouting of the elephant drivers, they stayed still and held tightly their weapons. Their spears were twenty-feet long and by the way the first three ranks held them, any enemy would impale himself on their sharp iron head, on the condition that they took the blow. What would happen when their spears would meet the elephants' massive body? Jon was not very confident.

"Now!" he screamed. "Make way for them!"

All of a sudden, the lancers stepped aside, letting some of the animals enter the lines of the Golden Company; understanding there was something wrong, the elephant drivers tried to stop their mounts, but it was too late. The charging beasts couldn't be stopped and Jon knew it was one of the weaknesses of war elephants.

On Jon's left, some lancers tried to resist the mass of grey flesh towering above them and pierced the animal's chest; a terrifying clamor resounded as the elephant shook his head, his trunk waving in the air, but in the end, the wounded beast mercilessly trampled on several men. However, behind him and the ranks of lancers, their revenge appeared as a group of crossbowmen and lancers who had volunteered to use javelins. At first, the crossbowmen fired the elephants, then the lancers ran toward them and threw their javelins, aiming their unprotected chest.

At this point, the impressive beasts had gone furious and out of control: no matter the efforts of their drivers – some shouted at their mounts, other pointlessly beat them with a stick – the elephants just tried to avoid the blows and to get back to their position, bringing chaos on the battlefield.

Jon led his horse to the last row of lancers, for it was time to deal the death blow.

"Now!" he shouted, pointing at the elephants.

These men had left their spears and shields for a less noble weapon; two by two, they pushed forward the dozens of old carts Jon had bought in Myr, so that the elephants could not ignore the huge fire pots they carried. Filled with pitch, the pots had been set ablaze to terrify the beasts. After cursing because he couldn't recall how the triarch Belicho had gotten rid of legions of elephants, Jon had finally remembered this fact. _Hundreds of pages and countless hours spent reading this old book and finally one tiny detail will be helpful. If I knew how important it would be someday, I would have paid more attention while I studied it._

At the sight of the fire pots, the other elephants trumpeted again and tried to flee, despite their drivers protestations. One of the elephants collapsed on the ground, while reckless lancers threw themselves on his carcass to finish him off. His driver, thrust out of the turret, had landed on the dirt and didn't move anymore. Most of the men of the Golden Company, understanding things would be over soon, made way for the furious elephants and kept still, observing how their enemies' plan backfired. With every elephant trampling on the Tyroshi and their sellswords, Jon knew that they were closer to a significant victory. Myles Toyne probably enjoyed that sight. _And Rhaegar would have been impressed._

* * *

Under the shining canvas of the captain-general's tent, Jon suffocated. Myles Toyne, more than happy after their victory against Tyrosh in the Disputed Lands, had invited him to eat and to talk about Jon's future in the Golden Company.

Casually sitting on silk cushions, they ate the spicy local cuisine – stews and marinated meat so hot the Dornish food seemed tasteless in comparison – and Jon found himself drinking more than eating, but the flagons of wine didn't seem able to quench his thirst.

"It was brilliant," Toyne summed up after singing the praises of Jon's decisions during the battle. "Of course I expected you to be a remarkable officer, but when you joined us you seemed so-"

He stopped short of telling more, seemingly looking for the right word. _Desperate_ , Jon thought. _The exact word is'desperate'._ He knew Myles Toyne could take umbrage of his faraway look and sullen face but sometimes he simply wasn't strong enough to pretend.

"Can I ask you a question?" Jon said, still avoiding the captain-general's gaze. "Did you- did you ever lose a battle that meant so much you wanted to die?"

Toyne stayed silent for a few heartbeats, running his big hand through his hair.

"People said this damn city was a trap," he finally told Jon. "With Robert's forces hidden inside the walls and the Stark host at the gates, you were not supposed to leave Stoney Sept alive. Yet you retreated in good order."

Jon chuckled darkly, putting aside his silver goblet before spilling some green nectar of Myr the Magisters of the city had given to the Golden Company.

"If only the king had seen the battle through your eyes..." he answered, his nervous laughter still shaking him. "Do you know why King Aerys choose me?"

Myles Toyne poured some more wine in his own goblet, after Jon politely refused.

"The king knew your skills and he needed a change after this bungler he called his Hand," the captain-general replied.

"I brewed over his decision for days and nights," Jon explained, wiping beads of sweat on his forehead. "It didn't make sense. At first, I thought Prince Rhaegar had whispered my name in his father's ear, then I learned that my promotion was Lord Varys' idea."

He sighed deeply, hoping that the pressure of the battle would go away, but Jon knew the pressure he had felt because of the threatening presence of the elephants was nothing compared to the weight he had on his shoulders since the day of Stoney Sept. That feeling, a mix of guilt, shame and loss, would last until his death and follow him like his own shadow.

"The bloody Spider had the idea, but Aerys needed a good reason to agree."

"Like I said," Myles Toyne offered, "he was aware of your skills."

"I doubt that. What he wanted was a new Tywin Lannister. He would have named Lord Tywin if he could and somehow he should have. Tywin Lannister would have won the Battle of the Bells. He would have killed Robert. Not himself, like I wanted to – a terrible mistake, now I see it – but he would have gotten rid of Robert."

The tent remained silent for a while and the only noise Jon heard was the footsteps of the men outside and the gloomy cries of night birds.

"And tell me how Tywin Lannister would have won this battle you lost so miserably," Toyne said with a challenging tone.

That time, Jon was forced to lock eyes with him. The captain-general's ugly face with his protruding chin and oversized ears looked like a gargoyle. _Were there gargoyles pulling faces and mocking me from the roofs of the Sept, as I climbed the stairs where Robert waited for me?_

"Tywin Lannister is no fool," Jon answered, "he would never try to kill Robert himself, as if battles were single combats. I lost because I was too damn proud."

"Is that all?" Toyne asked, his voice exuding irony.

Jon frowned.

"I'll tell you what Lord Tywin would have done, then. He would never have entered Stoney Sept, nor searched the houses, nor questioned the inhabitants, like you did. Nothing of this ever interested him."

"May I ask what makes you believe he would never have searched the houses and taverns?" Jon asked, losing his temper.

" _The Rains of Castamere_."

" _The Rains of Castamere_! How can you base your reasoning on a song?"

"Sometimes, songs tell us the truth," Toyne retorted. "Did you ever notice that many songs come from battles and feats of arms?"

"What happened in Castamere is not a feat of arms. It was a slaughter."

"Precisely, Connington. Lord Tywin acquired a certain experience in slaughters. That's why he would have stayed outside of Stoney Sept. I'm not even sure he would have tried to negotiate with the inhabitants. He would have ordered to burn the city down."

He stopped for a while, observing Jon's reaction. The exile wiped his forehead again, wondering if the hot weather and the spicy Myrish cuisine were the only reasons he was bathed in sweat.

"The day you crossed the gates of Stoney Sept, you were just as determined as anyone else to catch Robert Baratheon and to kill him," Toyne explained. "But you would never lower yourself to butcher an entire city. That's the main difference between Tywin Lannister and you. Somehow, you're a victim of the noble education your lord father gave you. And so was Rhaegar. If he had stayed behind his troops at the Trident, he'd still be alive. But he was a prince, and when he saw that Robert wanted to face him in single combat, he didn't dare to refuse."

Jon's eyes fell on his lap.

"Do you know what this war you call the War of the Usurper is?" he added. "It's the victory of pragmatism against the traditional education lordlings receive. Who won? A philanderer who hid himself in the brothel of Stoney Sept and a man who betrayed his king and decided to sack the capital. Your values are at odds with theirs. I asked you to prepare our counterattack against the elephants for one reason: I wondered what you would do in such a situation, if you could forget what you learned about strategy and warfare in Westeros. You succeeded. You're learning to put aside your noble education and the old habits that made you lose the Battle of the Bells. What was it about, today? Craftiness, dissimulation... You waited for the elephants with the lancers and only stroke when it was necessary. Exile is an education, Connington. Not the kind of education you yearn for, of course, but it will give you what you need to get back to Westeros, someday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this chapter, let me know!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room had probably been a library once, for several empty shelves remained. The wet nurse welcomed them with a deep bow and a few words of bastard Valyrian Jon could have understood if he had paid attention, but the cradle in the center of the room was all he could see.  
> Wordlessly, he stepped forward, watched the crib made of wicker, which simplicity contrasted with the mahogany shelves and the expensive rug on the floor. Inside the cradle, a small head and two little fists emerged from the blankets.  
> "What are you doing?" Mopatis asked, surprised to see a man leaning over an infant with something in his eyes that looked like interest.  
> Jon didn't listen to him and knelt by the child. As the baby was asleep, he gently wrapped him in the blankets and took him in his arms. This way, Jon could have a better look at his face. At first, he only saw the silver-blond hair that was typical of the Targaryens, then he wondered what he was looking for. His skin was smooth – not like a woman's skin, Aegon's seemed velvety – and it was difficult to recognize Rhaegar's features in such a small face.

**_Three months later..._ **

The rustle of poplar leaves, even in this exotic place, even hundreds of leagues away from the Stormlands, reminded him of his childhood. It was his third visit at Illyrio Mopatis' mansion in Pentos and he hadn't paid attention to the gardens so far; he had just walked through to reach the large entrance hall, led by a servant.  _ Why is it different today? _ Jon could pretend not to care about the motive of his visit, but neither Mopatis, nor himself would buy that story.

He therefore remained under the colonnades, outside of the house strictly spoken yet not in the gardens, and he looked at the poplar trees. In the hot climate of Pentos, Jon had never expected to find poplar trees; he associated them with the water-logged soil of the riverbanks, or with the chilly winters of the Riverlands and the Stormlands. Now that he had noticed their presence in Mopatis' gardens, he couldn't get his eyes off of their haughty frame. In the warm breeze of the late afternoon, the rustle of the tree leaves was soothing like the voice of a long-lost friend.

"I had no idea you loved so much these gardens, my friend," Mopatis said.

Surprised, Jon turned around. Mopatis was not what he would call a friend.  _ At best, he's an ally, nothing more. Our interest in House Targaryen is the only thing we share and I'm not even sure he won't betray their cause. _

_ 'Their cause' _ : it sounded both strange and sweet to think  _ 'their' _ when Jon had thought Rhaegar's son to be the only survivor of House Targaryen. Mopatis was positive, though: if Queen Rhaella was dead, her children, the young Viserys and his baby sister Daenerys, had escaped Dragonstone thanks to Ser Willem Darry.  _ He did what I should have done for Rhaenys: he didn't ask anybody's permission. _ His nails dug deeply in his palms.

"Are you sure about Prince Viserys and his little sister?" Jon asked, after regaining his composure.

Mopatis chuckled.

"Are all Westerosi men distrustful?" he answered. "Why would I lie to you? My informers in Braavos say they arrived a few days ago, after a long trip, exhausted maybe, but safe and sound. Within ten years, Viserys can sail back to Westeros and claim what he owns by birthright."

Jon remained silent, remembering his last conversation with the young prince, in the Red Keep, months ago.  _ Lord Stark and his son had just been killed and the stench in the corridors was unbearable. _

"I was expecting more enthusiasm, Jon," Mopatis added, trying to lock eyes with him.

"You know what smallfolk says about the Targaryens, in Westeros?" Jon replied, looking ahead and still observing the silvery leaves at the top of the poplar trees. "Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. He can be either a great king or a madman. Viserys might have inherited his father's madness."

Mopatis led Jon inside and invited him to sit down of a bench seat. A servant girl brought wine and some dried fruits; Jon accepted a goblet of Pentoshi amber but let his host help himself and nibble at the figs and dates.

"He's still very young," Mopatis observed. "How can you be sure about it?"

"I spent years in the Red Keep," Jon replied. "I came to King's Landing as a squire before Prince Viserys' birth."

"Certainly, my friend, but what makes you say this boy is mad?"

Jon sighed and took a sip of wine; the apprehension in Mopatis' voice sounded like the doubts of an old peasant woman who wanted to buy a cow and feared to make a bad investment. His wavering was not enough to take away his appetite though, and the fat merchant brought another fig to his lips.

"Do death threats count? Because Viserys used to threaten people who lived in the castle. He's seen many ugly things lately, and I'm afraid this war and the loss of his mother destroyed his sanity. Are Queen Rhaella's children going to join the young Aegon here?"

"Of course not!" Mopatis exclaimed, wiping his sticky fingers on a white cloth. "Three Targaryen children in the same place would be too easy to find for King Robert's spies. And don't forget that no one knows about Aegon. If you want my opinion, your brave Willem Darry should keep Viserys with him and send away the baby girl. Someone else should take care of her... But he won't listen. Westerosi knights and lords never listen."

This cutting remark was addressed to Jon, but he pretended not to notice.

"No need to say you shall never meet Ser Willem Darry, Jon. Robert Baratheon is no fool. He could make a connection. Anyway, for everybody's safety, Viserys and Daenerys should ignore Aegon's existence, and Aegon won't know who his parents were before I decide to tell him. Children are very bad liars, when it comes to family matters."

This confession confirmed something Jon already knew: the fat merchant didn't want to put all his eggs in one basket. His opportunist behavior exasperated Jon who wondered what would happen the day both Viserys and Aegon would be old enough to cross the Narrow Sea with an army.  _ Will they fight each other? Will Mopatis take advantage of their division? What does he expect? Gold, lands, once a Targaryen prince reconquer the Seven Kingdoms? He's certainly not helping their cause for free. _

Jon scooted to the edge of his seat.

"I want to see him," he suddenly told Mopatis.

"Who do you want to see? Don't tell me you're talking about Ser Willem Darry! Any encounter with him-"

"I want to see Aegon."

"We should not call him Aegon. We should-"

"I'm tired of following your rules, Mopatis. Just let me see the child."

Indignant, Mopatis almost choked on a date.

"You still don't believe me! Well, Jon-"

"I believe you when you say Aegon is here!" Jon nearly shouted. "I just want to see him."

The fat man stared at him in disbelief. If Jon demanded to see the boy, it meant one thing, in Mopatis' world: the exile didn't trust his word. He scowled at Jon, then angrily wiped his plump hands on the cloth and tossed it to the floor with a childish gesture.

"Come with me," he ordered curtly, pushing himself from his armchair.

Jon followed the fat merchant out of the antechamber: at the end of a corridor, Mopatis pointed at a door similar to the others and pushed it open. The room had probably been a library once, for several empty shelves remained. In the mahogany bookcases where Mopatis stored his scrolls and books, the wet-nurse had put the clothes she used for the baby as if they were a lavish kind of linen closet. She welcomed them with a deep bow and a few words of bastard Valyrian Jon could have understood if he had paid attention, but the cradle in the center of the room was all he could see.

Wordlessly, he stepped forward, watched the crib made of wicker, which simplicity contrasted with the mahogany shelves and the expensive rug on the floor. Inside the cradle, a small head and two little fists emerged from the blankets.

"What are you doing?" Mopatis asked, surprised to see a man leaning over an infant with something in his eyes that looked like interest.

Jon didn't listen to him and knelt by the child. As the baby was asleep, he gently wrapped him in the blankets and took him in his arms. This way, Jon could have a better look at his face. At first, he only saw the silver-blond hair that was typical of the Targaryens, then he wondered what he was looking for. His skin was smooth – not like a woman's skin, Aegon's seemed velvety – and it was difficult to recognize Rhaegar's features in such a small face.

The child shuddered and suddenly opened his eyes; for a second, Jon panicked and thought the baby would probably scream when awakening in a stranger's arms.  _ Even my red hair could frighten him. After all, it was the first thing Rhaenys noticed when she looked at me. _

The memory of the little princess was still painful, even months after her death. These dark blue eyes her brother had seemed so serious compared to hers.  _ She had dark-brown eyes, sparkling with mischief. She was born to laugh and to drive boys up the wall. Even a man whose true love was another man could see that. _

"What are you doing?" Mopatis repeated.

He was right behind Jon this time and towered above him without trying to hide his impatience.

"If I'm supposed to raise this child, sooner or later, we should make acquaintance."

The baby's blue eyes turned to purple with the late afternoon sun; mesmerized by this gaze which reminded him of someone else's, Jon smiled and stood up, holding tightly the heap of blankets. He crossed the room to reach the nearest window.

"Aegon," he whispered.

The child didn't flinch and looked back at him.

"For the time being, he's just 'the baby'," Mopatis announced, with the insistent tone of a man who liked to ruin others' happiness.

Jon wondered if he was happy at this very moment; the lump in his throat and Mopatis' annoying presence pleaded against any sort of pleasure, yet, with Aegon in his arms, he felt different. Raising this child meant teaching him so many things and protecting him from so many dangers it was somehow more demanding than any office in King's Landing. The day Jon would take this boy with him and raise him as his own child, his life wouldn't focus anymore on sellswords' contracts, war elephants or gilded armors. A sellsword's life was pointless; a father's life – for he would be the closest thing the child would have to a father – made him feel dizzy.

When Mopatis cleared his throat, Jon understood he had to leave and turned to the wet-nurse; the tanned dark-haired woman looked at him suspiciously while she took Aegon from his arms, maybe wondering if this stranger who was so eager to hold the baby could be his father. Jon knew his behaviour was surprising and even shocking, but he didn't care.

He soon regained his mask of arrogance and followed Mopatis back in the antechamber, then under the colonnades. The orange and pink hues in the sky revealed how late it already was. Before crossing the gardens to reach the porch, Jon stopped and so did his host, wondering why the exile couldn't just leave.

"What's the matter, Jon?"

"The poplar trees in your gardens... they remind me of my home. I didn't know there were poplar trees in Essos."

Mopatis chuckled at hi remark.

"There are not such trees here. They wouldn't survive without the cisterns; my servants water them everyday. Poplar trees are an expensive fancy."

The rustle of the poplar leaves in the breeze lulled Jon and he was glad that Aegon could hear that sound day after day.

"I imported them from your country," Mopatis added, eager to show his wealth. "Uprooted in the Crownlands, I think, carefully transported on a ship and replanted here. Are they not splendid?"

"They are," Jon answered, nodding vehemently.

A servant brought his horse and Jon left Illyrio Mopatis' mansion. Questions tumbled in his head, but as he moved away from the mansion surrounded by creamy yellow high walls, he still saw the top of the poplar trees and their green-silver leaves.  _ Uprooted and exiled, like me, like Aegon. _ Raising the boy and helping him reconquer the Seven Kingdoms was much more challenging than anything he had done so far. Strangely, it was not the conquest that worried Jon, but the education he would give Aegon.

_ Because everything depends on what I teach him, on what kind of man he'll become by my side. He'll have to take my word for it, when I'll tell him what great kings the Targaryens were, now that Robert Baratheon drags their name through the mud. Will he believe me when I'll tell him Rhaegar was brave and wise? Will he forgive my contempt for his mother? Will he believe that I wanted to save his sister Rhaenys and failed? Will he believe that, in Westeros, poplar trees are not watered everyday in stupid gardens surrounded by high walls but grow strong and free on the riverbanks? _   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've just read the last chapter of this fic which completes the series 'About Robert's Rebellion'. Thank you so much for reading this!  
> If you enjoyed this story, let me know.


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